


My Sweetest Friend

by WithThisShield



Series: Dom/switch/sub AU [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Dom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dom/sub, Eventual Smut, Hurt/Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I promise, Impact Play, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Injury Recovery, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Lambert Needs a Hug (The Witcher), M/M, More tags to be added, Oral Sex, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Potions, Protective Eskel (The Witcher), Serious Injuries, Starvation, Sub Lambert (The Witcher), Subspace, Switch Jaskier | Dandelion, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Touch-Starved, no beta we die like aiden, the smut has arrived
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:22:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 38,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24334303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithThisShield/pseuds/WithThisShield
Summary: “Fuck you,” the witcher wheezed.Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Right, yeah, fuck me, I’m such a jerk for saving your life.”Jaskier spent twenty years denying his true nature as a switch and contorting himself into the perfect submissive companion for Geralt, only to have their whole friendship thrown back in his face. Eight months after Geralt broke his heart on the mountain, Jaskier meets a new prickly asshole with yellow eyes.Lambert has trust issues and a serious chip on his shoulder—witchers aren’t supposed to be submissives, and he has spent his whole life playing third fiddle to his Dominant brothers. The last thing he wants is Geralt’s reject bard following him around. He doesn’t feel anything for Jaskier. Fuck that.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert
Series: Dom/switch/sub AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773550
Comments: 663
Kudos: 1079





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I love all the post-episode-6 fics where Jaskier heals by meeting a *nice* witcher. But what if instead of Eskel or Coen, the next witcher he meets is Lambert?
> 
> This AU also has Dom/switch/sub as biological designations (kind of like Alpha/Omega dynamics, but different biology). If you like this aspect, you should definitely check out [Follow You Down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23354230/chapters/55951348) by kirk_spock_in_the_impala!
> 
> Title taken from Johnny Cash’s “Hurt” – you can’t tell me this isn’t Geralt and Jaskier’s break-up song.

Trudging into Flotsam with his lute case on his back, Jaskier was tragically sober, but he planned to rectify that problem as soon as humanly possible. Flotsam was brilliant, possibly the best town in all of Temeria, because the inn was located directly above a _brothel_. He could earn some coin, and then stumble downstairs to immediately lose it again.

Brothels were traditionally more Geralt’s arena (don’t think about Geralt), but Jaskier had crested the hill and crossed over to the unfortunate side of forty, and he was _tired_ of being a novelty fuck for every lord and lady who wanted to brag that they’d bedded a rare switch. The very same secondary gender designation that rendered him fundamentally incapable of pleasing Geralt as a travel companion, or in any other way ( _don’t think about Geralt!_ ). No, better to pay for company, so at least if someone came away feeling dirty and used, it wasn’t _Jaskier_.

Play some music, get fantastically sloshed, and find a whore to suck him off: it was a solid plan. A _Geralt-free_ plan, he dared to hope. Jaskier was going to not think about witchers for the rest of the afternoon and, if he was lucky, all through the night and well into the next day, given a potent enough hangover. So of course, he’d barely been in town two minutes when he ran across a suspiciously witcher-like commotion.

 _Just keep walking_ , he told himself.

He did not keep walking.

Three townspeople were attempting to calm a riderless horse—a bay, not a chestnut (not Roach, not Geralt), but with that particular configuration of saddlebags, including a sheathed steel sword and an empty second scabbard. The horse’s sides heaved like bellows, and the poor beast danced nervously on three legs, trying to keep weight off the fourth. Three wide-set claw marks gouged the animal’s left haunch, bleeding steadily.

“Fuck,” Jaskier muttered to himself. He shouldn’t get involved. But he already knew he was going to. Pushing closer, he asked the man who was grabbing the reins, “Oi, you—where’d the witcher go?”

“We got ourselves a griffin nesting in the crags, out past the east village.”

It was _not_ a good sign that the horse had returned to town alone. Jaskier helped himself to the saddlebags, looking for alchemy and medical supplies, but the alchemy satchel _sloshed_ ominously as he detached it. Holding his breath, Jaskier peeked inside and was hit with fumes so strong they made his eyes water—the contents were a soup of broken glass and spilled potions, everything inside ruined. The horse must have fallen and crushed it.

The villager holding the reins eyed Jaskier curiously. “You know him?”

“I know witchers.” He shrugged, discarding the alchemy satchel but taking the medical bag. “You know horses?”

“Well enough, bard.”

“Then get the poor creature stabled and see to it that his injuries are tended. I’ll be back with coin to cover the expenses.”

“You can’t mean to go after the witcher!”

Jaskier flashed him a bitter smile. “I never _mean_ to get into trouble, my good sir. Yet it finds me anyhow.”

.o.O.o.

The so-called _crags_ , as it turned out, were as advertised: rocky, hilly, difficult to climb, terrible visibility even without the trees getting in the way and the evening mist rolling in. Jaskier’s heart hammered in his chest from exertion on top of the gnawing fear that he would be too late to help and find nothing but a body. He’d followed Geralt on enough hunts to know it was a very bad idea to call out when the monster might still be alive, so he searched among the cliffs and boulders as stealthily as he could.

He crested another outcrop, and suddenly there they were: two dead archgriffins and a witcher.

The witcher knelt in the dirt, one hand clutched over his stomach as blood seeped from a wound. His face was washed out, corpse-pale, dark veins standing out in stark relief, his eyes like black wells. He was breathing shallowly, nostrils flared as if it was a struggle to draw air.

Jaskier hurried over and crouched in front of the man, quickly assessing his condition. “Well you’re in a right state, aren’t you?”

The witcher said nothing. His black gaze tracked Jaskier’s movements with a focus that was both intense and much too sluggish.

“Oh no, please tell me you’re not holding your intestines in.” Jaskier bent down to get a closer look at the gut wound and immediately regretted it. “You’re holding your intestines in. Fantastic.”

The witcher bared his teeth like a feral animal.

“Yes, yes, you’re very fierce, and also high as a kite on potions,” Jaskier replied, undeterred from his examination. “You, my friend, are way over the toxicity limit. Where’s your White Honey?” Without waiting for permission, Jaskier rifled through the small leather pouch attached to the witcher’s belt, examining and discarding the remaining potions. “Blizzard… Maribor Forest… Swallow, which you are _so_ not allowed to have until we get your toxicity down… what even is this one? It looks _foul_.”

Jaskier sat back on his heels, holding the Swallow potion out of reach as the witcher made an uncoordinated swipe for it. “Please don’t tell me you left the White Honey with your horse, because your alchemy bag has seen better days. Fine, I’ll just have to… work something out, then.”

Jaskier shrugged out of the straps of his lute case and travel pack and began rifling through his own possessions. Because he was truly the most pathetic person alive, Jaskier had been unable to stop collecting herbs whenever he ran across them in his travels, and so for the past eight months he’d been lugging around an increasingly bulky supply of dried alchemy ingredients which he, himself, had absolutely no use for. Except now he _did_ , so suck on that, Geralt. Not such a useless shit-shoveler now, hm?

Jaskier took out his camping bowl to use as a mortar and started grinding dried white myrtle flowers as best he could without a proper pestle. He didn’t have any dwarven spirits with him because that shit was _expensive_ , but any kind of strong alcohol should work well enough.

“Yes, I’m carrying around a full bottle of rye vodka, don’t judge me, it’s been a rough year,” Jaskier narrated, as he poured some into the bowl. “All right, let’s give that some time to… infuse, or extract, or whatever you call it, and get your wound taken care of.”

Jaskier dragged the witcher’s medical bag closer and helped himself to a clean bandage, his other hand still around the neck of the rye bottle. “Lean back.”

The witcher glared.

“Look, we’ve got to stitch it up, or as soon as you pass out you’ll be wearing your insides on the outside.” Jaskier had put up with more than enough stubborn witcher bullshit for one lifetime, thank you very much, so he added a little Dominant voice to his command. “ **Lean back. Now.** ”

“Fuck you,” the witcher managed to grind out, but he propped his free hand behind him and leaned away, giving Jaskier room to work.

Jaskier wetted the bandage with vodka and then splashed more over the witcher’s hand, hoping some of the alcohol would actually get on the wound.

“ _Hrnnnh!_ ” the witcher sounded through clenched teeth.

“I’m going to slip this bandage under your armor and take over holding duty until you can get some of these layers out of the way, so I can actually see what I’m doing with the needle. Got it?”

The witcher gave a tight nod. The hand-off was awkward and nerve-wracking, and Jaskier tried very hard not to think about how there was only a few layers of rye-soaked linen in between his hand and someone else’s internal organs. The witcher was wearing studded brown leather armor over a red gambeson, but luckily both garments fastened up the front in a fashion that made them straight-forward to shrug out of—unlike Geralt’s complicated leather cuirass (seriously stop thinking about Geralt). After a minimum of pained struggling, the witcher was left in nothing but a thin, blood-soaked undershirt that wouldn’t be much of a hindrance.

“All right, take it back from me, now,” Jaskier instructed, and the witcher’s bloody hand clamped over Jaskier’s, applying pressure as he cautiously pulled out from between the bandage and that fever-hot, calloused palm.

Digging around in the medical bag again, Jaskier found a needle and a roll of catgut suture. He scrubbed his hands with the vodka before starting at one corner of the deep slash. It was probably not the grossed injury he’d ever seen, but it was certainly in the top five grossed injuries he’d ever sutured, up close and personal. There may have been some gagging, he was not embarrassed to admit. But when he was done, the witcher’s guts were on the inside where they belonged, and the sutures held.

“Well, that was… absolutely something I _did not_ miss,” Jaskier commented, wiping his hands clean on a rag and looking around the small clearing between the rocks, considering next steps. “We ought to relocate somewhere marginally more comfortable for the night, if you think you’re up for it.”

There was an overhang on one side of the clearing, not quite deep enough to merit calling it a cave, but enough to keep them sheltered if the clouds decided to commit to raining overnight. Jaskier untied his bedroll from his pack and spread it out under the overhang.

He went back to the witcher and crouched at his side. “If you lean on me, do you think you can stand?”

“Fuck you,” the witcher wheezed.

Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Right, yeah, fuck me, I’m such a jerk for saving your life.”

He pried the witcher’s arm away from his side and ducked under it, then wrapped his own arm around the witcher’s back, careful not to press anywhere near the gut wound. Despite being a little shorter than Geralt, this witcher was still built like a stone fortress and weighed about as much, so the dozen steps over to the bedroll were a challenge. And when they finally made it, the cantankerous asshole _knelt_ instead of lying down, because _witchers_.

Jaskier just shook his head. “I’m going to collect some firewood. Try not to bleed to death in the meantime.”

The witcher was still conscious—and still highly toxified—when Jaskier returned with an armful of branches. He built up a good-sized campfire and lit it with his flint (not igni, fuck you Geralt), and then checked on the progress of the white myrtle extraction. The vodka had successfully taken on a slightly milky hue from the myrtle, so Jaskier brought the bowl over to the fire to heat up and added the last ingredient, dried honeysuckle.

He sighed. “Well, it’s not going to be the finest White Honey tincture ever made, but with a little luck, it will take the edge off.”

There was nothing left to do but wait for the potion to finish brewing, and as the adrenaline drained from Jaskier’s body, he began to feel acutely self-conscious. The witcher was staring at him with those black eyes as if he were debating whether or not to tear out Jaskier’s throat with his teeth, obviously still hopped up in battle mode despite the grievous injury. Jaskier fidgeted for a couple minutes before deciding he might as well stare right back, and actually take a look at the man’s face instead of just his intestines.

The witcher had short brown hair with a prominent widow’s peak, an aquiline nose, and a set of old claw marks scarring his forehead and cutting across his right eyebrow. He had none of Geralt’s beauty, but he was handsome in his own way. Jaskier felt oddly relieved at the differences—despite the extremely hostile murder-glare, which was a little too reminiscent of his last witcher. At least his vast experience being the target of a witcher’s ire meant it didn’t particularly phase him.

It’s not that this witcher wasn’t dangerous; witchers were absolutely at their most dangerous to humans when they were high on potions, all their violent instincts cranked up like a loaded ballista. But fear would just be… unhelpful here. Jaskier had never been afraid that Geralt would injure him, and his calm had always seemed to alleviate that potion-driven need to lash out.

Jaskier sniffed at his White Honey concoction, trying to judge if enough of the alcohol had boiled off yet, and then set it aside to cool. “I don’t suppose you’re in any condition to share your name yet, hm?”

The witcher stared daggers at him.

“Personally, I prefer the introductions to happen _before_ I stitch together someone’s abdominal muscles, but I suppose disappointment is an old friend, at this point in my life.”

Jaskier tapped his fingers against the tin bowl, testing the temperature, and determined it was cool enough to pick up, so he shuffled closer to the bedroll to administer the medicine. The witcher was using one hand just to stay upright, but the other lashed out in a sudden rush of surprising speed and accuracy to grab Jaskier’s wrist. The contents of the bowl sloshed dangerously, but Jaskier managed to keep from spilling it.

“Congratulations, you’ve caught yourself the ever-elusive bard,” he said dryly. “Yes, you’re very scary and still completely capable of hurting me, now would you please release my arm and let me neutralize all those toxins you ingested?”

The witcher’s grip tightened. Jaskier could practically feel the bones in his wrist grinding together, and he inhaled sharply at the pain.

“ **Let go,** ” he said, lending weight to the command with his Dominant voice.

The witcher bared his teeth again and growled in his throat. Actually fucking growled! If Jaskier weren’t so accustomed to his generosity being met with a stunning lack of gratitude, he’d feel quite indignant about it.

“ **Stop hurting me. The potion toxicity is killing you, and I’m trying to save your life.** ” Jaskier held eye contact and prayed; as a switch, his voice wasn’t usually strong enough to sway a full Dominant, but the witcher was hardly in peak condition, so hopefully his mental fortitude was leaning toward susceptible at the moment.

The witcher’s hand trembled slightly, as if he was fighting against himself, but his fingers slowly peeled away from Jaskier’s wrist and released him.

“Thank you,” Jaskier said primly. “Now, are you going to be a good witcher and take your White Honey, or do I have to try to force it down your throat, which frankly, is just going to be embarrassing for both of us?”

The witcher made an odd sort of hissing noise in his throat, but after another moment of glaring, he grabbed the bowl and downed the potion in two deep gulps. The White Honey took a few seconds to kick in, but as soon as the purifying effect hit his veins, the witcher slumped over on the bedroll, unconscious.

“You’re so very welcome,” Jaskier quipped.

He did his best to arrange the witcher comfortably—rolling him over onto his back, pulling off his boots, bandaging the gut wound to keep it clean, tucking him into the bedroll. Jaskier wanted to wipe off the grime and blood from the witcher’s skin with a wet washcloth, but it was getting dark, and he should definitely not blunder around dangerous terrain at night looking for a stream. There was a waterskin in his pack, but he ought to save that for drinking; the witcher would be thirsty from blood-loss when he woke.

Jaskier bit his bottom lip, running his fingers lightly through the witcher’s disheveled hair to smooth it back. Oh, he knew this feeling, he was in trouble now. Whether he played as Dom or sub, Jaskier liked to take care of his partners—he _craved_ it, an almost physical craving akin to his needs for subspace and domspace. He _needed_ to take care of this witcher, even though the man was more likely to punch him in the gut than thank him for his efforts.

He ought to protect himself, walk away before he got too deeply invested. He’d already traveled this road once to its inevitable, heartbreaking conclusion, and if he had any sense of self-preservation at all, he wouldn’t put himself through that pain again. Jaskier swiped a smear of blood off the witcher’s medallion, and his heart sank. It was a wolf’s head. The School of the Wolf.

Geralt’s people.

“Fuck.”

But Jaskier had never been very good at self-preservation.


	2. Chapter 2

The night was long and nerve-wracking. With the witcher out of commission, Jaskier didn’t dare sleep, but there wasn’t much to occupy his mind while he kept watch. He retrieved the witcher’s silver sword and gave it a cursory cleaning; he didn’t know as much about weapons maintenance as he did about alchemy, but _wipe the griffin guts off_ seemed like a reasonable starting place. When the fire burned low, he fed it more wood. He considered and discarded the idea of playing his lute, though he composed a bit in his head, just for his own amusement. It wasn’t as if anyone would want to listen to the Ballad of the Bard Who Saved the Wolf’s Arse After He Fought Too Many Griffins. Jaskier had never been one for self-aggrandizement (okay fine, that was a blatant lie, but still).

An hour or two before dawn, the witcher started scowling and fussing in his sleep—a nightmare, probably—and Jaskier scooted over to the bedroll to soothe him. “Shh, you’re safe,” he whispered, stroking his hair.

The witcher stirred a little, leaning into the touch, almost nuzzling his face against Jaskier’s palm. It was terribly intimate, a trained killer accepting a soft gesture of comfort, and Jaskier held his breath in surprise. But it lasted for only a few seconds before the witcher jerked fully awake, seemed to realize what he’d been doing, and shoved Jaskier away.

The witcher groaned in pain as his wound protested the sharp movement. “Mother…fucking… piss-buckets,” he ground out from between clenched teeth.

“Sorry for waking you.” Jaskier sat back and eyed him curiously. “Do you only speak in swear words? Granted, you’ve already proven to have a broader vocabulary than the last witcher I knew, so I suppose I shouldn’t complain.”

“Touch me again and I’ll fuckin’ kill you.” The witcher’s voice was hoarse and ragged, as if his breathing was still bothering him.

“That’s going to make changing your bandage difficult,” Jaskier pointed out reasonably.

“Fuck off,” he snarled. “Change it myself.”

Jaskier raised his eyebrows. “Right, yeah, good. Clearly I’m not needed here. I’ll just leave your medical kit over there on the other side of the fire”—he pointed to where to it currently sat, well out of reach—“and be on my way, then, shall I?”

The witcher struggled to sit up, but fell back against the bedroll, panting and pressing his hand over the wound, face twisted in a grimace of pain. “Shit— bugger— _duvvel hoael_.”

“Oh good, you can cuss in multiple languages. So you must be coherent enough to tell me your name, yeah? I’m Jaskier.”

The witcher went still, eyeing him suspiciously. “Jaskier,” he repeated.

“Yes, that’s correct.”

He frowned. “Geralt’s bard.”

Jaskier felt those two words land like a dagger between his ribs. He swallowed around a lump in his throat. “Bard, yes. But not Geralt’s anything, anymore.”

After a minute of silence, the witcher grudgingly spat out, “Fine.”

“Uh, ‘fine’ what?”

“Fine, I’m Lambert, you can check my gods-damned gut wound.” He said it as if he were getting his arm twisted into doing Jaskier a favor at considerable inconvenience to himself.

“Let me see your face first?” Jaskier tentatively reached a hand to angle the witcher’s face toward the firelight.

“I don’t need you to fuckin’ see that,” Lambert grumbled, but he didn’t fight the touch.

He looked better; the dark veins had mostly faded, and the black was gone from his eyes. Yellow irises slitted as he looked at the fire and then dilated again as he glanced up at Jaskier.

“Well, it’s not my finest detox job, but given that I made the White Honey with random stuff I just happened to have in my travel pack, I’ll be content that at least you’re out of the woods. Metaphorically speaking.” Jaskier offered a smile. “Literally, we are very much still in the woods.”

Lambert yanked his chin out of Jaskier’s hand. “Hilarious. You’re a regular court jester.” The words caught in his throat and he coughed, then winced.

“Right, water,” he remembered, fishing the waterskin out of his pack and holding it out. When Lambert just glared at it suspiciously, Jaskier huffed and took a sip himself to prove it was safe. “I just went to considerable trouble to get you _un_ -poisoned. Why would I turn around and re-poison you?”

Lambert grunted and snatched the water. Jaskier tried to help him sit up to drink, but the witcher swatted and growled at him, and ended up awkwardly propped on one elbow as he drained the waterskin. Trying not to feel stung at his help being rejected, Jaskier fetched the medical bag instead. Lambert lay back down, panting a little from the effort, and watched Jaskier with that intense yellow gaze as he loosened the bandage to check on the sutures. The wound was still an angry red gash, but it didn’t look inflamed or poisoned, and the stitches were holding.

“Geralt talked about you,” Lambert announced, apropos of nothing. “You wrote that annoying Toss A Coin song.”

“Annoying,” Jaskier repeated hollowly. He felt nauseated, imagining the witchers sitting around a dining table in Kaer Morhen in the dead of winter, discussing how irritating his music was.

“Yeah, that song is annoying as _shit_.” Lambert curled his lips in a vicious smile. “But that just means it gets stuck in everyone’s heads, and then at least some people remember to pay their fucking witcher. So, mission gods-damn accomplished, I’d say.”

That sounded oddly akin to praise…? Jaskier’s cheeks felt suddenly warm, and it wasn’t from the fire. “Um. Right. So, I left off the healing salve, since I didn’t know which potions you had in your system and… bad reactions, you know. Anyway, should I put some on now? Or… or do you want to take your last Swallow?”

“Salve, yes; potion, fuck no. Swallow keeps you alive in combat, but that kinda forced accelerated healing wrecks the shit out of your body in the long run.” Lambert worked his jaw for a moment, and then admitted, “If you’d let me take it last night, I woulda fuckin’ died. So. Thanks for not being a complete moron, or whatever.”

“Aww.” Jaskier presses a hand to his chest, only half joking. “Is it sad that that’s the sweetest thank you I’ve ever gotten from a witcher?”

Lambert snorted. “Pretty sure one of Geralt’s multitudinous and varied ‘hmm’s is actually a thank you.”

Jaskier found the jar of healing salve and began carefully smearing a thick layer over the wound. “Oh definitely. But despite what certain monosyllabic monster hunters may think, ‘hmm’ doesn’t count. I’m a poet by trade; it’s occasionally nice to hear the actual _words_.”

“Yeah, well, the famous White Wolf can be kind of a fuckwit, in case you hadn’t noticed.” Lambert’s tone was an odd mixture of bitter and fond.

“Oh, I had,” Jaskier assured. He finished with the salve, set aside the old bandage to wash later, and found some fresh linen to cover the wound. “Out of curiosity, why did you take on both griffins at once, instead of picking them off separately?”

“Didn’t know there was a mated pair, now did I?” Lambert spat. “Town alderman said _a_ griffin.”

“Sure,” Jaskier agreed. He _might_ have said something about the importance of proper reconnaissance work before leaping straight into a hunt, but he decided to keep his mouth shut for once.

Lambert’s eyelids drooped, and he blinked heavily as if fighting to stay awake. Whatever pitiful dregs of adrenaline his body had managed to muster when he’d woken up in the company of a stranger, the effect was clearly wearing off now.

“You should sleep some more, if you can. Don’t worry, I’ll wake you if we’re about to get eaten by wolves.”

Lambert grumbled something about how Wolves don’t get eaten by wolves, but the pull of sleep took him.

.o.O.o.

 ~~Jaskier’s new witcher~~ Lambert slept through the whole morning, a deep and hopefully restorative slumber, while Jaskier tried to keep himself busy.

He followed the sound of running water to a nearby stream, refilled his waterskin, and washed the blood and griffin guts from the witcher’s armor and gambeson. He’d never really mastered the art of trapping, so fresh food wasn’t going to happen, and the last of his provisions would have to do; he gnawed on a stale breadroll and saved the jerky for Lambert.

By noon, Jaskier was getting antsy and bored, so he took out his dagger, rolled up the sleeves of his chemise, and got to work harvesting monster bits. It was _so gross_ , and he really almost had a surprise second encounter with that breadroll, but some of the body parts were valuable and/or hard to acquire ingredients. If injured Lambert was anything like injured Geralt, he’d just come back and harvest the corpses after they’d been laying here decomposing for a few days—Jaskier had a choice between doing it himself now, or living with the rotting corpse stench later. _Urgh_. No thank you. At least there was a stream to wash up in when he was done.

Once he’d accomplished everything else useful that he could think of, it became very difficult to ignore the urge to give Lambert a sponge-bath. Jaskier had fresh water. The witcher was sleeping quite soundly. Could he get away with it? He could probably get away with it. Oooh, he _itched_ to take care of ~~his new witcher~~ the other man, who was more or less a complete stranger. And had explicitly requested not to be touched. Stop it. Fuck, _fuck_ , he was gonna do it anyway.

He knelt beside Lambert with a bowl of water, dipped a washcloth in and then wrung it out so it wouldn’t be too wet. Gently, he wiped the sweat and grime from Lambert’s face, and a warm satisfaction flared in Jaskier’s chest. That is, until Lambert’s eyes flickered open.

The witcher went instantly tense. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Well,” Jaskier said, flustered at having been caught, “you’re dirty.”

“I’m not a fucking invalid,” Lambert griped.

“You’re recovering from a potions overdose and a very serious slash wound,” he reminded. “You are, in fact, literally an invalid right now.”

Steeling his nerve, Jaskier wiped some dried griffin blood spatter off the side of his neck. He expected to get slapped away, maybe, but instead Lambert was gradually relaxing as he ran the damp cloth over his skin.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Lambert breathed and squeezed his eyes shut. Jaskier drew the washcloth down his chest where the open neck of his shirt laid him bare, and Lambert shivered under his touch.

Jaskier paused. “Are you cold?”

Lambert opened his eyes and just stared at Jaskier for a minute, pupils blown wide. Dazedly, he said, “What?”

Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat. He felt his domspace instinct teasing at the edges of his mind, yearning to ease Lambert down into a soft, euphoric trance, but that… that couldn’t be right. All witchers were Dominants—Geralt had even confirmed that, once, in a rare burst of forthcomingness. Lambert couldn’t be a submissive, it was just Jaskier’s stupid switch-brain, getting its wires crossed again.

“I, um.” Jaskier swallowed thickly and turned away, breaking eye contact. “Sorry, I…” He waved a hand in the air, as if that could somehow serve as sufficient explanation for his inappropriate behavior.

Lambert shook his head as if needing to clear it. Still groggy from sleep, probably.

Jaskier scrambled for a distraction to help him plow through the awkward moment. “You should… uh, should drink some more water, and maybe eat something?”

The witcher drained the waterskin again and accepted a piece of jerky to gnaw on, but he seemed to have lapsed into a sullen quiet, back to communicating with grunts and scowls.

Jaskier was painfully aware that his tendency to fill silences with ill-considered word vomit was not one of his most endearing qualities, but he was apparently incapable of stopping himself. “Your face is looking much less, you know… _veins of death_ , and I have to admit that I’m not precisely provisioned for an extended stay in the out of doors, so perhaps if you get a bit more napping in, this evening we could check the wound and see if you’re up for a bit of walking. It’s really not so far into town, and I’m sure it would be more pleasant to finish your convalescence with a roof over your head instead of, you know, an overhang in the rock. We can stay here another night, of course, if that’s what you’d like, I don’t mind—just thinking that a bath and a bed at the inn might ease the process along…”

“Fine,” Lambert interrupted.

“Oh. Okay then. That’s—that’s a plan.”

Jaskier really should _not_ have mentioned a bath, because now his traitorous brain was back to fixating on how much he wanted to scrub the witcher clean. Lambert’s hair wasn’t as long as Geralt’s, so it really wouldn’t be necessary, but maybe Jaskier would get to wash it, all the same. Jaskier could just imagine Lambert relaxing back in a steamy tub, his eyes glazing over as he sank into subspace while Jaskier worked his fingers around the witcher’s cock, slowly stroking him off.

 _Fuck_. Gods-damn it, what was _wrong_ with him? Jaskier needed to get his head on straight. Lambert was definitely going to ditch him at the first opportunity if he didn’t get his Dom side under control.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a Lambert chapter!

It was sunset by the time Lambert hobbled into town, and he was gods-damned tired of this walking bullshit. He had to carry his silver sword in a reverse grip, the naked blade resting flat against the back of his shoulder, because the scabbard was with all the rest of his crap—tied to the horse who left him for dead and fucked off to town at the first opportunity. So much for the vaunted loyalty of animals.

Unlike the horse, Geralt’s bard was stuck to him like a frigging leech. The bard had gentle, dexterous hands and a Dom voice that felt like honey in his brain, slow and sweet—and all of it set Lambert’s teeth on edge. This total stranger waltzed up when he at his most vulnerable, and just… fucking… _helped_ him, for no reason. Nobody was that fucking nice, there had to be an ulterior motive, Lambert just couldn’t work out what it was.

Maybe Geralt had slipped up and mentioned Lambert to him, and now Jaskier wanted to bag the only submissive witcher in existence. The bard was nursing Lambert back to health so he could pin him down and fuck him later; that made sense. Except he couldn’t quite believe Geralt would betray him like that, even accidentally. Not _Geralt_.

Lambert could count the people he trusted on one hand, and half of them were dead. The other half were Geralt and Eskel.

Whatever the bard’s reasons, he wouldn’t go away. Lambert had to keep snarling and shoving him off, because whenever he seemed a little unsteady on his feet, Jaskier would swoop in to try to take some of his weight. Lambert was a gods-damned witcher, he didn’t need to lean on anyone. Sure, wounds that tore through muscle were a bitch—the muscle fibers took fuckin’ forever to heal, even when the edges were properly sutured together. It was _agony_ every time he accidentally tried to flex his abdominals, and Lambert could look forward to being stiff for weeks after the pain subsided. But it wasn’t like this was his first injury on the Path.

The walk into town seemed to take forever, and Lambert felt drained by the time they arrived at the Flotsam Inn. Now he was standing across a wooden counter from the innkeep, a hunched old man who gave him a look like he was sucking on a lemon.

“Buzz off, we don’t serve yer kind here.”

Lambert’s brain was slow to process this. He glanced behind him; the bard was setting up in the corner to play for a few hours, but Lambert was fucking _exhausted_ , and he just wanted to collapse on an actual bed for once. Stupidly, he said, “What?”

“Don’t serve no mutants. This is a respectable establishment.”

An awful wave of humiliation washed through him, and he would have flushed bright red if his _mutant_ physiology allowed it. Anger followed hot on the heels of his shame, and his empty hand curled into a fist. “Respectable?! You’ve got a damned brothel in your basement.”

The innkeep’s resolve wavered a little as the sour stench of fear wafted off him, but he crossed his arms. “You can sleep in the stables. Best I can offer.”

Lambert clenched his teeth so hard he was lucky they didn’t crack. He would have to take the stables. He’d bed down with the horses like a fucking _animal_ because there was no way he’d find the strength to trek back out into the woods and set up camp. There would be no bath, no hot meal, no clean sheets; just him, cold and alone and in pain, like fucking always.

The worst part was having to walk over to where Jaskier sat, tuning his lute, and report his failure. Lambert was flustered and quivering with impotent rage and _ashamed_. Gods, he was ninety years old and he felt like a fuckin’ _child_ who’d been sent to market and come home empty-handed. His jaw worked for a second before he managed to spit out, “Fucker won’t rent me a room.”

Jaskier looked up from the stool where he sat, his expression hardening, his lips pressing into a thin line. An awful sinking sensation twisted in Lambert’s stomach, and why the fuck was he worried that he’d disappointed _Jaskier_? Lambert wasn’t some pansy who needed to seek approval from the first person who came along and didn’t spit on him, this was ridiculous, he didn’t fucking care if the bard was displeased with him—

But Jaskier was rising from his stool and adjusting his lute to rest against his back and looking at the innkeeper with _intent_. He wasn’t upset with Lambert, he was upset _on behalf of_ Lambert, and fuck if that realization didn’t feel like whiplash. The bard strode purposefully over to the counter and tapped a small stack of orens against the wood.

“Hello, my good sir,” Jaskier said with a thin veneer of false friendliness. “You’re going to rent me a room for two.”

“Not if you’re sharin’ with that mutant, I’m not,” the innkeep retorted.

The bard smiled wide, all teeth, as if he were viciously delighted at the opportunity to put this small man in his place. “Do you know who I am?” he said sweetly. “Jaskier the Bard, graduate of Oxenfurt, favored entertainer of the Cintran royal court, composer of _Toss A Coin_ and _Her Sweet Kiss_ , among others. So unless you want my next very-catchy drinking song to be titled _The Worst Tavern in Temeria_ , you’ll take my coin and hand me a room key. **Now.** ”

Fuck, Lambert’s cock did _not_ just twitch in the confines of his suddenly-too-tight leather trousers, because the bard threatened to destroy someone’s reputation. _For him_.

“Oh, and you’re going to throw in a bath and two dinners for free,” Jaskier was saying, “because my presence in your tavern is a delight that loosens the purse-strings of your customers. Yes? Excellent.”

The bard turned to him with a smug little smile and placed the room key in his palm. “Problem sorted.”

“Jaskier—” Lambert swallowed the _thank you_. He was not gonna show gratitude, because making him feel grateful was probably just another part of the bard’s nefarious plan. Lambert was no fool; he hadn’t survived as long as he had by dropping his guard every time a pretty Dom smiled at him.

Jaskier lowered his voice, so only Lambert could hear. “Do you need help… with, uh”—he cleared his throat—“anything?”

“Fuck’s sake, I can take my own damn bath and put myself to bed. I’ve been on the Path alone for seventy fuckin’ years, I’m not helpless.”

The bard bit his lower lip (and Lambert would swear on his mother’s grave that it was just the blood loss that made him feel weak in the knees). “Of course, I— yes. Good evening, then.”

Jaskier went back to his corner, and Lambert watched him go for only a second, really, before he dragged himself upstairs.

The room had two beds, and Lambert was… relieved. Yes. The feeling in his gut was relief, not disappointment. He didn’t want to share a bed with Geralt’s reject bard, that would be nuts. He was absolutely never going to think about how Jaskier had him halfway to heaven with a few swipes of a damp cloth, because Lambert was the fucking _champion_ of not overthinking shit.

When a serving girl brought him a plate of cabbage rolls stuffed with beef and onion, he was _not_ pathetically grateful for a delicious hot meal. She returned with another worker to fill a bath, and he wasn’t grateful for that either. Lambert finished his food, stripped, and eased himself down into the hot water. The wound had closed enough that it wouldn’t be a problem to get it wet, but it was still sensitive, and he hissed at the stinging sensation.

In the bath, he absolutely did not think about Jaskier’s murmuring _you’re dirty_ and brushing so slowly down his chest with a washcloth. Nope, not at all, not thinking about it—oh, shit, he was hard. Well… it would be better to take the edge off now when Jaskier wasn’t around, right? That was totally logical. Solidly reasoned. Lambert stroked his aching cock and told himself he was only doing it to maintain his secret. He definitely wasn’t thinking about Jaskier’s hands touching him everywhere as heat coiled in his groin and he wanked furiously and came with a breathy whine.

.o.O.o.

Lambert jolted awake in his bed at the sound of the door opening. At first he assumed it must be the bard coming up to sleep after finishing work, but that didn’t track with the sunlight streaming in the window or the fact that Jaskier wasn’t carrying his lute. Lambert scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to rid his head of bleariness so he could orient himself. Looking around the room, some time had definitely passed—his saddlebags and steel sword were neatly stacked in one corner, and a now-cold plate of breakfast sausage and fried potatoes sat on the nightstand beside his bed.

“Good morning,” Jaskier said, obnoxiously cheerful. “Or afternoon as the case may be.”

The bard tossed a cloth pouch onto the bed beside Lambert. “What’s that?” he said, which was a stupid fuckin’ thing to say, because from the _clink_ it was obviously a coin purse. A very large coin purse. He just couldn’t figure out why the bard would be throwing a bag of money at him.

“I closed out your contract with the alderman.”

Lambert hauled himself up into a sitting position, grunting at the spike of pain in his stomach, and reached for the bag—it felt too heavy. He pulled open the drawstring to look inside; at a rough guess, there were almost twice as many orens as there should be. “This is too much,” Lambert said stupidly. Apparently his brain was stuck on _stupid_ today.

“The notice was for _one_ griffin. You killed two.” Jaskier’s lips twitched into a sly smile. “I brought the alderman around to my view on the matter.”

Lambert looked back down at the coin pouch, flabbergasted. He had never _in his life_ been overpaid on a contract. Sometimes he had to bluster and make vague threats to get the client to cough up even half of what he’d been promised. What the fuck did Jaskier get out of haggling the alderman for more? Was he hoping for a cut of the money? And if so, why wouldn’t he just fucking _take_ half of it and hand over the expected amount? Lambert would’ve never been the wiser.

The bard was looking a little flushed, his heartrate ticking up a notch, his gaze skittering away. Lambert looked down at himself and remembered that he’d climbed into bed naked last night, instead of putting on the same filthy, blood-stained clothes he’d been wearing before the bath. He adjusted the bed linens to be slightly more modest, scrutinizing Jaskier’s reaction. Lambert’s initial assumption might’ve been closer to the mark than he’d thought—maybe the bard was kinky for other Doms, and had no idea he was barking up the wrong tree with Lambert. Dom-Dom pairings were par for the course in witcher culture, but were still considered deviant in some human societies, so it would make sense for someone with that sexual preference to attach himself to any witcher he could find.

Nothing was going to happen here, obviously. Banging a famous bard who liked to write songs about witchers would be an extremely efficient way of announcing his deepest, darkest secret to the entire fucking continent. But at least Lambert felt a little less anxious about the whole situation, now that he’d figured out what Jaskier was after. Okay, so the bard was distractingly pretty and seemingly determined to wear Lambert down with these shows of purported kindness. Lambert just needed to focus on how very much he did _not_ want his brother’s sloppy seconds, and the urge to fuck the bard would wane.

.o.O.o.

It was dark out when next Lambert awoke. He glanced at the other bed, and it was empty—so, probably evening, and the bard was still working. Lambert’s empty stomach felt like it was eating itself and he was frankly a little stir-crazy after essentially sleeping for the past two days. He hauled his sorry ass out of bed and got dressed in a clean shirt and trousers from his saddlebags, then thumped stiffly down the stairs. The tavern room of the inn was filled with music, ringing out strong above the hubbub of drinking patrons, and Lambert paused, taken aback by it.

_“When the rooster crows at the break of dawn_

_Look out your window and I’ll be gone_

_You’re the reason I’m travelin’ on…”_

Shit, Geralt had never mentioned that his bard was _good_. All that grumbling about _never shuts up_ and _constantly gets in trouble_ made Lambert think he was just addicted to that regular hit of irritation. Geralt’s extra round of mutagens had left him numb, so any feeling at all—even annoyance—was precious. But now Lambert was wondering if his brother hadn’t kept the bard around for more than that.

_“But I wish there was somethin' you would do or say_

_To try and make me change my mind and stay_

_We never did too much talkin' anyway…”_

The bard finished the song, and his eyes lit up when they landed on Lambert lurking by the stairs. “He lives!” Jaskier announced dramatically, waving for Lambert to join him. He set aside the lute with over-exaggerated care, as if his own reflexes couldn’t quite be trusted, and picked up his mug instead.

“You’re drunk, bard.” Lambert scowled. How the fuck did he manage to play the lute and carry a tune when he was halfway to hammered?

“True.” Jaskier leaned sideways, propping his elbow on the tabletop and his head against his fist. “but I’m a _charming_ drunk, so you really can’t complain.”

The bard hooked his foot around an empty stool and dragged it closer to Lambert, offering him a seat, and then gestured to the barmaid. Lambert sat, and the woman brought him a mug of foamy beer and a plate of potato dumplings swimming in butter. It was dangerous, getting used to a comfortable bed and real food and people serving him reliably instead of driving him out of town by throwing rocks at him as soon as the contract was finished—fucking _dangerous_ , to get used to that, and he was absolutely gonna stop… just, maybe, after he finished these dumplings.

Between bites, Lambert said, “So how do you do all that, y’know, fancy string plucking when you’re in your cups?”

“Finger-picking,” the bard corrected. “Well, let me tell you: I may be _a cad and a coward_ ,”—Jaskier overenunciated the words in a way that made Lambert think someone else had said them—“but I am gods-damned good at my job.”

“I’m… sure you are.” Lambert felt a little lost here. People didn’t just… _talk back_ to him. Like he was a person.

“I _buried_ the Butcher of Blaviken and convinced basically the entire continent that Geralt’s a hero,” Jaskier declared drunkenly. “Did you know— _did you know_ that people sometimes _literally_ throw coins at him now? Not for like, finishing a contract, or anything. They just see him lurking in a tavern with his swords and his stupid pretty hair, and they break into song and spontaneously cough up their money. _I_ did that.”

“That’s so fucking unfair,” Lambert groused, finding his footing in the conversation now that they were complaining about Geralt, which he was an expert at. “I could take off all my clothes like a dancing girl, and no one would throw coins at me.”

Jaskier smirked. “I might.”

Lambert snorted. “Oh yeah?”

“Only one way to find out for sure.” The bard looked him up and down suggestively.

“Fuck off,” Lambert said, breaking eye contact to glare into the bottom of his mug.

“Mm, sorry, I don’t really go in for that. Never been good at knowing the right time to fuck off. Apparently twenty years was too long.” The bard winced. “Geralt had to get quite explicit about his feelings… and then, finally, off I fucked.”

“Wait. Twenty years?”

Jaskier hummed, took a swallow of ale, and then said with a wistful smile, “Twenty-two, to be precise.”

Lambert squinted at the bard; granted, he wasn’t exactly an expert on human aging, but Jaskier didn’t look like someone who’d been living rough on the road for two decades. “Shouldn’t you be, like… old or something?”

The bard’s smile became oddly fixed, like it was carved in wax. “I moisturize,” he said tightly. After a pause, the smile dropped entirely. “No, that’s a lie—Geralt did something to me.”

“Oh, now we’re getting to the good shit. Define ‘did something.’”

“Have you ever noticed how he’s owned the same horse for an improbably long time? I mean, the _whole time_ I’ve known him, which makes Roach at least twenty-five—she ought to be in equine retirement, but she’s as spry as the day I met her.”

Lambert screwed his face up, befuddled. “I just assumed that when his horse died, he’d find a new chestnut mare and name it Roach again.”

Jaskier had been trying to take a drink, and instead choked on his beer. “What!” He let out an incredulous bark of laughter. “That is… deranged.”

“Huh. You’re right.” Lambert folded his arms thoughtfully. “That _would_ be fucking weird, now that you mention it. Like, way weirder than just not naming your horses at all.”

“Who would own a horse without naming it?”

Lambert. Lambert would. He coughed into his fist awkwardly. “Aaanyway… so you’re saying, what, Geralt waters his horse at the fountain of youth?”

“If I had to guess? Whatever experimental extra Trial they gave him made it so his body sort of… leaches mutagen. Something in his sweat, maybe. All I really know is that living in close quarters with Geralt for a prolonged period of time seems to stop the aging process.” Jaskier sipped at his beer casually, as if he hadn’t just dropped a huge fucking _bomb_. “Unless that’s something all witchers do.”

“Uh, no. Pretty sure that’s a Geralt-only thing. I feel like I would know if I had magic life-extending bodily fluids.”

“See, you’d think that, wouldn’t you?” Jaskier wagged a finger at him. “But I’m not sure he’s ever noticed.”

“Ooh, did you bang Geralt? Maybe the magic is in his splooge.”

Jaskier, who already had some healthy color in his cheeks from the alcohol, flushed bright red. “Regardless of anything we may or may not have done, I doubt Geralt was boning his horse.”

Lambert snorted. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. Geralt and Roach are _tight_.”

“Yelch.” Jaskier pretended to gag. “Thank you ever so much for that lovely mental image I’m never going to manage to scrub off the backs of my eyelids.”

Lambert clapped him on the shoulder, which almost knocked the unsteady bard off his stool. “You are so very welcome.”

He turned back to his plate to finish his dumplings, and they lapsed into momentarily silence.

“I hate it,” Jaskier admitted, voice dropping low as if he were revealing a dark secret. “What if it’s permanent? It’s like… Geralt’s inside of me, and now I’m just going to be stuck feeling this way _forever_.”

Something about the bard wanting to die _faster_ made Lambert acutely uncomfortable in an aching sort of way. Like most strong and confusing emotions, he immediately repurposed it into anger. “On the upside, you get to live longer than the rest of these sad sacks,” he snapped, gesturing vaguely at the other patrons with his mug. “And you didn’t even have to swallow a bunch of excruciating, potentially deadly mutagens to get that way! I’d call it a win, bard.”

Jaskier threw him a dry look. “Yes, the endless pining, interrupted only by all-too-brief periods of black-out inebriation… truly I have been blessed by the gods.”

“I saw you playing. You had this whole room practically eating out of the palm of your hand—I bet everyone fucking _adores_ you everywhere you go. And you think your life is sad cuz my brother’s an emotionally stunted jerkwad? Boo hoo, cry me a fuckin’ river. At least you’re not the one who’s gonna die alone in the dirt, holding your own fuckin’ intestines in your hands!”

Lambert shoved away from table and stood with enough force to knock over his stool, and he stormed back upstairs to their room. He screamed and punched the wall hard enough that the boards buckled, leaving behind a fist-shaped dent, and then stood in the middle of the room, breathing too fast, fists still clenched.

He wasn’t even sure if he was angry at Jaskier, or himself, or just—just fucking _everything_ , this life of solitary violence he never would have chosen if anyone had fuckin’ cared to ask. The way it felt to be wounded, helpless, out of his mind on toxic combat potions and yet still distantly aware that this was probably _it_ for him.

Except he hadn’t been alone, and he hadn’t died. Because Jaskier found him. Which, in a way, was worse. Even if the bard was only pretending to give a shit about Lambert in hopes of boning another witcher, it was still dangerous to have someone. Dangerous even to _want_ that again.

Better to have nothing, and therefore nothing left to lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lyrics from Bob Dylan's "Don't Think Twice"
> 
> Thanks for all your lovely feedback, folks! The updates will probably slow down a bit, because I need to, like, sleep sometime this week. But I've got big plans!


	4. Chapter 4

“Wakey, wakey!”

It was Lambert’s voice in his ear, _brutally_ chipper, and Jaskier groaned and covered his head with one arm, trying to block out the piercing sunlight. He felt woozy and his mouth tasted like something had died in it. He didn’t remember the end of the night after Lambert stormed off, but he must have dragged himself back to the room, since here he was in bed.

“How much more did you drink, you fuckin’ lush?” Lambert said with an almost gleeful lack of sympathy, and then shook Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Ugh, too much. And if you shake me again, I’m aiming for you when I puke.”

“C’mon, rise and shine, bard! I wanna check on that dumbass horse, but it’s not in the inn’s stable. Where the hell did you put it?”

Jaskier groaned again and struggled to sit up, his stomach giving a threatening lurch and his head swimming. “And here I thought _I_ was supposed to be the obnoxiously cheerful one.”

Lambert held his hands out as if presenting himself to an audience. “Didn’t you know? You’re looking at the _original_ Geralt irritant.”

Jaskier threw him an unimpressed glare. And how pathetic was it that the thought of someone else getting to annoy Geralt gave him an actual stab of jealousy in his chest? Jaskier jammed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to relieve his pounding headache. “Can’t the hunt for the missing horse wait until I’ve slept off my hangover?”

“No, it fucking can’t,” Lambert replied, still grinning, “because I punched a hole in the wall last night, and innkeepers generally frown upon destruction of property. As soon as one of the maids notices, I expect our frosty-to-begin-with welcome will be pretty thoroughly worn out.”

“Right. Good,” Jaskier said dryly. He fumbled for his waterskin and made himself drink, despite the protesting nausea, knowing from too much experience that the only real cure for his headache was to rehydrate. “Your horse is stabled at the healer’s. Just… give me a minute and we can go.”

“You reek like a distillery, by the way.”

“Hardly a surprise, since I did attempt to swallow one last night.”

In the end, it took more than a minute for Jaskier to wipe himself down at the wash basin, change into slightly fresher and less rumpled clothes, and pack up all his possessions. But soon they were walking across town. Lambert, with his swords on his back and saddlebags thrown over one shoulder, was putting on a good show of normalcy, but there was a stiffness to his gait that shouldn’t be there. Jaskier watched him out of the corner of his eye while nibbling cautiously on a breadroll, and if he played up his own miserable hungover shuffling a bit to give Lambert an excuse to take it slow, well… the witcher didn’t need to know that.

By the time they arrived at the healer’s place, he felt _almost_ human again. The woman was a no-nonsense type, rattling off instructions while she walked them around to the back, where the horse was stabled. ( _He’s good to walk, but no riding and nothing strenuous for at least a week._ ) There was a bit of confusion over the matter of her fees, in which Lambert looked _dumbfounded_ to discover that Jaskier had already taken care of the expense, and then the healer left them to it.

Jaskier petted the bay gelding’s velvety muzzle while Lambert tacked him. “What’s his name?”

Lambert was securing the saddlebags to the seat of the saddle rather than behind it, in lieu of a rider. He shrugged. “Nothing. Just… Horse.”

“You haven’t given your noble steed a proper name?” Jaskier gasped, absolutely scandalized.

Lambert scowled at the straps, double-checking them unnecessarily and seeming vaguely uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “Everything fucking _dies_ sooner or later. Why get attached?”

“How about Griffin?” Jaskier proposed. “Now that the brave steed has bested one.”

“He didn’t _best_ a griffin, he got mauled and ran away from a griffin.”

“I don’t care I’m calling him Griffin now.”

“Whatever.”

They left the healer’s stable, Lambert leading Griffin on foot. It wasn’t market day, so they had limited options, but Flotsam was at least a large enough town to have a baker and a butcher from whom they could purchase some travel provisions.

Jaskier sidled a bit closer as Lambert looked over the smoked meats. “Sooo… where does the Path take you next?” he said, trying to play off the question as idle curiosity, though the uptick in his heart rate probably gave away his nervousness.

Lambert rubbed a hand against the scruff on his face that hovered somewhere between stubble and beard. “Can’t get too ambitious with a frickin’ convalescent horse, so.” He paused. “White Bridge is closest. Guess I’ll try my luck there.”

“White Bridge. Good, yeah, lovely. Beautiful town, White Bridge. Lots of… river.” Jaskier winced.

Lambert paid for his selection of smoked pork strips and looked at Jaskier with a raised eyebrow.

Jaskier widened his eyes hopefully. “So…?”

“What?” the witcher huffed impatiently. “You got something to say, spit it out.”

“Can I…” Jaskier swallowed heavily against the fear of rejection that threatened to close his throat. “Can I come with you to White Bridge?”

“Like I give a fuck what you do,” Lambert snarled, turning away to add his purchase to the saddlebags.

Jaskier figured this was basically witcher-speak for ‘why yes, my dear friend, I’d be delighted to travel in your company for a while.’ He smothered a relieved grin, and he followed.

.o.O.o.

They were out the gates and far enough along the road that the trees had swallowed Flotsam behind them when Jaskier decided to take out his lute. He tied the empty case to Griffin’s saddle, which elicited a scowl from Lambert.

“Where’s your horse?”

Jaskier checked the tuning on his lute. “I don’t have a horse.”

“What happened to it?”

“I… never had a horse.”

Lambert came to a dead stop in the middle of the road and stared at him incredulously. “You’re telling me you followed my brother around for twenty-two years _on foot?_ ”

Jaskier flushed a little, because yes, when you put it like _that_ it certainly did make him sound like some pathetic lost puppy nipping at Geralt’s heels. “I prefer to compose while I’m traveling,” he defended weakly. “Can’t play and ride at the same time, now can I?”

“Uh, any halfway decent rider can control a horse with their legs and their seat. Reins are for pussies.”

Jaskier decided to ignore the thinly-veiled insult to his riding skills. “Anyway, it would’ve been much harder for Geralt to ditch me when I got too annoying if I’d had a horse.” He meant for Lambert to laugh, but the joke landed like a brick, and Jaskier’s face heated again with embarrassment.

Lambert gave a disinterested huff, as if he couldn’t be bothered with Jaskier’s personal drama. But a couple minutes later, he said, “Look, I dunno what bullshit happened with your falling out, but I can promise you it wasn’t cuz you were too annoying for Geralt. He fucking _loves_ feeling irritated.”

“Hah! I’d pay to see you tell _him_ that.” Jaskier tried, and likely failed, to keep the note of bitterness out of his tone.

Lambert shot him an indecipherable, scrutinizing look. “You’re serious. You really don’t know?”

“Know… what?”

“Twenty years, and that whoreson never explained—figures,” Lambert grumbled to himself, and then he said to Jaskier, “Those extra mutagens you mentioned? Yeah, they fucked him up _bad_. Geralt has trouble experiencing any emotions, like at all, ever. So when you get under his skin, get him all riled up—for Geralt, that’s like snorting a line of fisstech. Feeling _anything_ is pleasurable to him. He gets practically addicted to anyone who can make the numbness go away.”

“Oh,” was all he managed to say in response. Jaskier was reeling from this revelation, his mind struggling to re-evaluate two decades of interactions in this new context.

All those times Geralt had said _fuck off, bard_ with irked fondness suddenly made much more sense. It also explained a few things about Geralt’s relationship with Yennefer—like how they could go from arguing to fucking and then right back to arguing as if it were the natural cycle of things. But if what Geralt said on the mountain hadn’t been a product of his patience finally snapping—if it was true that he actually enjoyed Jaskier’s company, instead of barely tolerating it—why had Geralt pushed him away?

These thoughts were getting way too deep, so Jaskier fell back on his go-to method for deflection and flashed a flirtatious grin at his new witcher. “So… do you also find me pleasurably vexing?”

“Fuck you.”

“Oh, _if only_ , darling.”

“Never gonna happen, bard,” Lambert snapped. “Last time I try to tell you anything.”

.o.O.o.

Despite their less than optimal pace, they arrived at White Bridge well before sunset. The majority of the town was built on an island separated from the south bank by a narrow channel, with the eponymous white bridge stretching from the island across the main breadth of the Pontar river to the north shore. They stabled Griffin in the outlying village on the south bank and crossed the channel on a footbridge to look for lodging in town.

At the sight of a notice board, Lambert tried to veer off-course, but Jaskier skipped in front of him. “Eh, eh—no contracts yet. Bard’s orders.”

Lambert did not look amused. “Outta my way, buttercup.”

Jaskier resolutely ignored the way his heart skipped a beat at the new nickname. “Right, yeah, you’re in tip-top shape for monster hunting. Go get ‘em, tiger.” He lightly slapped his palm against Lambert’s stomach.

The witcher tensed and swallowed a grunt of pain. “Gotta get my armor repaired first, anyway,” he grumbled.

Because Jaskier was very mature, he did not gloat about being right. They walked away from the notice board and proceeded to the inn, instead. The innkeeper informed them that market day would be tomorrow, which was good news for their ability to restock supplies, but it also meant the inn was nearly at capacity. They got one room, with one bed.

Jaskier reminded himself to breathe. It would be fine, everything was fine. He attempted to discuss sleeping arrangements with Lambert, but the witcher clammed up and did an accidental yet very convincing impression of Geralt with his noncommittal grunts.

A problem for later, Jaskier decided. There was an audience downstairs in the tavern room just waiting to be serenaded, and if he raked in some solid coin, he’d be in a stronger bargaining position the next time the witcher decided he was going to look for a contract while still recovering from a mortal wound. Lambert seemed antsy in a way that Jaskier wasn’t sure how to counteract, as if the thought of holding still long enough to recover just rubbed him the wrong way. But gods damn it, Jaskier would take care of this stubborn witcher whether he liked it or not.

The evening before a market day meant a full and rowdy crowd, lots of folks in town from outlying hamlets and farms to sell their wares. To start out, Jaskier leaned heavy on the bawdy drinking songs, saving the slower ballads for later in the night. In between sets, he chatted with the innkeeper, a solidly built middle-aged woman with a wry sense of humor whom he loved immediately, on account of how she hadn’t tried to make Lambert sleep in the stables. She easily could have turned them away with the near-certainty that she’d be able to fill all her rooms on such a busy night, but she hadn’t, and Jaskier was hopeful that they might last longer than a couple days in such a welcoming town.

He drank the pint or three bought for him by patrons, but firmly did not allow himself to supplement his consumption with anything more. He didn’t actually want Lambert to think he was an alcoholic wastrel, even if the witcher seemed to derive a perverse pleasure from his hungover suffering. So when the crowd was thinning out and his fingers had developed that pleasant ache from too much playing, Jaskier bid adieu and went up to their rented room, tired but mostly sober.

Unfortunately, the bed problem had not miraculously solved itself while he was performing.

Lambert was sleeping so close to the edge of the bed that he was lucky his left arm didn’t fall off the side. The other half of the bed was conspicuously empty. Practically an invitation. The witcher clearly expected Jaskier to join him, right? He could ignore it and spread out his bedroll on the floor, but would that make things weird and awkward in the morning? He didn’t want to offend Lambert, or give the impression he was too scared or disgusted to sleep near a witcher. Because disgust was absolutely not the problem here.

Gods, Jaskier was a grown-ass man with internationally famous ballads and a guest lectureship at Oxenfurt, and he was blushing like a milkmaid over the thought of sleeping beside Lambert in the same bed. He was being ridiculous.

Jaskier toed off his boots, wriggled out of his doublet and trousers, and slipped into bed.

.o.O.o.

Lambert woke slowly, his mind full of soft fuzz. No rush, though; Aiden was still asleep, tucked against his side, head on Lambert’s shoulder and arm tossed across his chest. The School of the Cat weren’t exactly the get-up-at-the-crack-of-dawn kind of witchers, and Lambert looked forward to giving Aiden shit about sleeping late, but he might as well bask for a few more minutes before—

Wait.

Aiden was dead.

So who _the fuck_ was cuddling him?

Lambert tried to tense up but his body refused to listen, his muscles warm and relaxed, like he was neck deep in the hot springs below Kaer Morhen instead of trapped by his own weakness in some human’s bed. He turned his head, nose to the human’s hair, and picked up the too-familiar scents of almond and sandalwood overlaying Jaskier’s natural musk—of course it was the bard, that made sense—and his traitorous body just relaxed further. Almond and sandalwood and Jaskier meant he was safe…

No. No it fucking didn’t. Fucking _focus_ , gods damn it. He was absolutely _not_ safe to slip further into subspace in the company of someone who _told stories about witchers_ for his livelihood. That was a fast ship to Gossip Island.

“Gerroff,” he growled, shoving Jaskier with as much force as his uncoordinated arms could muster.

Jaskier blinked at him blearily for a couple seconds before sucking in a sharp breath and scrambling away to his side of the bed. “Sorry! Sorry,” he muttered, red blooming in his cheeks.

Lambert scrubbed at this face with both hands, trying to ground himself in reality. It felt like Jaskier’s touch was branded into his skin, the bard’s sudden absence leaving behind an almost painful coldness. Fuck, he _ached_ to be Dommed—it had been months since he left Kaer Morhen, and unless he happened to run across one of his brothers on the Path, it would be months more before the need could be sated. Usually, he could ignore the anxiety that burned in him like a hot coal buried in his chest, but flirting with the edge of relief like this was gonna drive him mad. He’d have to be more careful, make sure he didn’t go dipping his toes in the shallows until he was in a position where he was actually safe to go under.

At least Jaskier hadn’t noticed how close Lambert had been to subspace. This time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve written a bit of backstory for Lambert, and I’ll be posting it as a separate piece in the series (because it is Not Pleasant and some readers may want to skip it). Keep an eye out for that soon!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lambert’s backstory is now up! I posted it as a separate work in the series, because it needed some tags/warnings that I didn’t want to apply to the main fic. Check it out, if you so desire!

There were fresh blackberries in Lambert’s breakfast porridge, and he was confused.

Across the tavern booth, Jaskier paused with his own spoon halfway to his mouth, observing Lambert’s scowl. “What’s wrong, do you not like fruit?”

“Of course I like it,” Lambert snapped. “What kind of monster doesn’t like blackberries.”

He made himself pick up his spoon and eat, so Jaskier would stop looking at him that way. Foraging for berries in summer was one of the few pleasant memories he had of his childhood—out in the woods with his mother, beyond the reach of his father’s drunken temper for a while at least. Lambert frickin’ _loved_ blackberries. But they weren’t the cheapest food item, and tavern cooks typically didn’t waste such little luxuries on witchers.

Now he had a bard, and there were automatic berries. Had Geralt been getting berries on his porridge for the past twenty years? Gods, that was a stupid fuckin’ thing to feel jealous about.

Jaskier was tucking in to his own porridge and talking between bites. “So what’s on the agenda for today? Visit the armorer and stock up on supplies, I presume. Thought I might bring my lute to the market and see if there isn’t a nice place to perform for a bit. A busy market day should bring in some decent coin, don’t you think?”

Lambert raised an eyebrow. “Right, because my extensive knowledge of busking qualifies me to offer an opinion on that. Do whatever the fuck you want, bard.”

Jaskier wiped his thumb over his bottom lip, much slower than would be strictly required to clean an errant speck of porridge. “ _Whatever_ I want, you say…”

A loud bark of laughter burst out of Lambert, and Jaskier looked almost hurt at his reaction. “I’m sorry— I just—” He couldn’t help laughing again. “I’m trying to imagine how Geralt would respond to that, and all of the possibilities are hilarious.”

Jaskier seemed to wilt a little in his seat, and Lambert crushed the feeling of guilt that tried to swell up in him at the sight of the bard turning small and uncertain. “Mostly he ignored it or told me to stop.”

“What? I thought you two were bumpin’ uglies.”

“No.”

“You got all flustered when I made a crack about it before.”

“Yes, because it’s quite mortifying that I was practically drooling over him for two decades, and not once did he ever notice me that way.”

One part of Lambert’s brain was aware that he ought to reply with some kind of reassurance or sympathy, because that’s what any socially-competent acquaintance would do here, but that impulse was completely overridden by the rest of his brain _freaking the fuck out_. He’d been leaning heavily on his desire to _not_ sleep with his older brother’s ex-boyfriend. With that particular psychological barrier vanishing like smoke, it was going to be much harder to ignore how badly his submissive instinct wanted Jaskier to hold him down and rail him. Gods, Lambert was usually so careful; he never let himself even _think_ about having sex with Dominants. Aiden was literally the only Dom to get in his pants in the past seventy years, and Aiden was a witcher, he’d understood the stakes.

The silence had stretched much too long, and Jaskier was now scraping his spoon around his empty bowl morosely. Lambert cleared his throat. “So. You’ll be performing. Anything special I should look for in the marketplace? Personally, I gotta start putting together a new alchemy bag…”

“Oh!” Jaskier perked up like a terrier catching a scent. “I had a thought about that, actually. I was talking to Agatha last night—”

“Who’s Agatha?”

The bard rolled his eyes. “Agatha, the lovely owner of this very inn and tavern. Do keep up, darling. Anyway, it turns out that Agatha does a fair bit of her own brewing and has quite the set-up. She agreed to lend us the use of her still, for alchemical applications. A project for tomorrow, perhaps? So you should purchase supplies with that in mind.”

Lambert stared, yet again flummoxed by what the bard could talk random strangers into doing. “The innkeeper. Is gonna let us fuck around with her distillery equipment. Just like that.”

Jaskier beamed. “Just like that!”

He slowly shook his head. “Traveling with you is _surreal_.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Take it however you like, buttercup.”

.o.O.o.

Despite knowing how highly unlikely it was that he’d need his silver sword in the middle of town, Lambert couldn’t bring himself to leave it behind. He knew carrying two swords made him even more conspicuous than did his slitted yellow eyes or the claw-mark scars on his forehead, but the reassuring weight across his shoulder helped to ground him. Jaskier shouldered his lute with an oddly similar sense of satisfaction, or so it seemed to Lambert—an observation he decided not to think too hard on.

Rather than going straight to work, the bard followed Lambert as he dropped off his outer armor jacket and gambeson with the armorer and discussed the repairs. Then Jasker _kept_ following him as he made his way around the booths of the marketplace. It became quickly apparent that Jaskier would talk to _literally anyone_ , and often succeeded in drawing Lambert into conversations with the vendors. In a single morning, he had civil interactions with more people than he did in probably the entire previous month.

At the leatherworker’s stall, Lambert started rifling through the goods on display, intent on picking up a new satchel.

“Whaaat are you doing?” said Jaskier, drawing out the word with frankly unwarranted skepticism.

Lambert held open one possibility, trying to judge its volume. “According to you, my old alchemy bag turned into toxic glass-shard soup, so here we are.”

The bard threw him an overdramatic, scandalized look. “You’re just going to buy some random _sack_ to use as an alchemy satchel?”

“Yeah…?”

“No, you will not,” Jaskier said decisively. He didn’t edge the words with Dom voice, but he might as well have for the way the command shot down Lambert’s spine. (Fuck, he was in trouble.) While Lambert breathed through the sudden spike of arousal, Jaskier was busy commissioning a custom order from the craftsman. “We’ll need hardened leather on the bottom and going up the sides, and lots of individual compartments or dividers inside, to keep little glass bottles from breaking against each other. Like a healer’s bag…”

Lambert knew he was glowering, but he couldn’t seem to turn it off. When all they were doing was strolling around the market together, he’d convinced himself Jaskier was just _like that_ —he wanted everyone around him to be talking and laughing and happy, and by coincidence Lambert happened to be around. But ordering a custom alchemy satchel for someone was… it was thoughtful, it was _personal_. It was clearly not something the bard would do for any random stranger in the street. It was fucking _confusing_ , is what it was.

When he’d bought everything he needed, Lambert made a strategic retreat back to the inn with his purchases while Jaskier found a spot to perform. Usually, Lambert found too much quiet to be oppressive, but right now he was grateful for the privacy of their rented room. And if he accidentally spent several hours napping on the bed, because like it or not his body _was_ still healing, well… no one needed to know that.

It was late afternoon when Jaskier returned from busking in the marketplace. Lambert was oiling his steel sword, but he paused to glance up at the sound of the door. “So did you rake in the coppers?”

“Not exactly,” Jaskier said, “but a small child gave me a flower, so I’d call it a win.”

He pointed out the dandelion that was tucked into the buttonhole of his doublet; the softness of the bard’s smile tugged at something in Lambert, and he had to clear his throat and look away. Thank the gods this sword maintenance really required his _full_ attention.

.o.O.o.

Jaskier felt the day had been an unmitigated success. They accomplished all their errands, Jaskier played nursery rhymes for a very appreciative audience of small children, and Lambert didn’t even _try_ to run off half-cocked on a hunt that could get him killed in his current state of recovery. That night, Jaskier was prepared to spread out a bedroll on the floor, but Lambert just threw him an acidic glare and shoved his own pillow down between them as a barrier against snuggling. Surely this plan would succeed, as well.

The pillow barrier was ineffective.

In the morning, Jaskier woke up spooned around Lambert’s back, his left biceps appropriated as the witcher’s new pillow. He couldn’t help but feel he was not _entirely_ responsible for this; Lambert was also clearly a sleep cuddler, otherwise he wouldn’t be _hugging Jaskier’s right arm to his chest_. It was a very nice chest, oh fuck don’t think about Lambert’s ripped pecs, or the already dire morning-wood situation would only get worse. Jaskier flushed hot as he became very aware of how his erection was nestled in the cleft of Lambert’s arse, and oh _gods_ that was a firm arse, Jaskier could bounce an oren off it.

Lambert mumbled something unintelligible and shifted in his sleep, hips tilting to grind back against Jaskier’s dick in a languid rhythm that was definitely _not_ an accident. He bit his lower lip to stop himself from moaning in Lambert’s ear; it felt _so good_ he was almost afraid he’d embarrass himself in his clothes from nothing more than a little dry humping. This was a test. The gods were testing him. And they were cruel.

Jaskier scooted his hips back as far away as he could, which was not especially far given that both his arms were currently being held hostage by a sleeping witcher. His left hand was nerveless dead weight from the press of Lambert’s head cutting off circulation. He tried the extract his right hand at least, but Lambert’s grip tightened around his arm.

“This is ridiculous!” he whispered to himself. His balls ached with frustrated arousal, but he could neither squirm free nor take care of the problem against Lambert’s luscious backside—as much as he might want to—because _ethics_. After a few minutes of steadily rising desperation, he decided to kick Lambert in the calves.

Lambert jerked awake and took a moment to comprehend their relative positions. Then he made a low, threatening noise in his throat and scrambled to disentangle himself from Jaskier.

“Don’t growl at me. That time it was at least fifty percent on you, mate.” The blood rushed back into his left arm in a tense flood of pins and needles, and he added, “Aaah, fuck!”

Lambert was sluggish to rise and even more cantankerous than usual, though Jaskier didn’t pay it much mind; he was busy flexing the feeling back into his poor hand. He needed that hand, it was his fretboard hand. And anyway, by the time they’d broken their fast and carried Lambert’s purchased ingredients into the backroom next to the kitchen, the witcher seemed more or less back to his typical level of prickliness.

Lambert unloaded his canvas market bag onto the counter. Packets of herbs and such came out first, followed by a truly ludicrous quantity and variety of alcohol.

“So what are we cooking up? You seem to have bought… essentially _all_ the hard liquor in the entire town of White Bridge.” Jaskier clasped his hands behind his back, reminding himself not to look with his hands. “Seriously, did you leave anything for the rest of us to get drunk on?”

Lambert snorted. “Distilling a high-quality potion base is the hardest part to get right when you’re on the road, so while we’ve got the equipment, we’re just gonna prepare a shit-ton of White Gull.”

Jaskier felt a little thrill at his use of the pronoun _we_ , but he did his best to hide it. “Makes sense. Once you have a stock of White Gull, you can whip up whatever specific potion you need over a campfire without much trouble.”

“Exactly.” Lambert uncorked his small army of spirits and cordials, sniffing and tasting each one—presumably to check if they were fit for use. He paused partway through the task to side-eye Jaskier with half-joking suspicion. “I’m not gonna hear some two-bit troubadour belting out the ingredients for White Gull a few years from now, am I?”

Jaskier threw him an amused smirk. “Lambert, darling—trust when I say that _no one_ wants to listen to a ballad full of alchemy recipes. Your secrets are safe with me.”

For some reason that was entirely opaque to Jaskier, the jovial atmosphere vanished and Lambert’s expression darkened quick as a summer thunderstorm. A muscle jumped in his cheek as his teeth clenched, and his knuckles turned white were he gripped the edge of the counter. After a moment, he managed to unlock his jaw enough to speak. “How ‘bout you shut your trap and focus on grinding the arenaria.”

“Right, yeah, good.” Jaskier fetched a mortar and pestle off a shelf. “I’ll just… work quietly then. Naught but silent back-up. You won’t even notice I’m—”

“ _Jaskier._ ”

“Right. Shutting up now.”

.o.O.o.

Making White Gull consumed their entire day. The process seemed to consist mostly of adjusting the fire temperature under the copper alembic and waiting for liquid to drip out of the cooling pipe, though Jaskier was aware he was missing some of the subtleties when it came to the order and method with which the ingredients were combined. Lambert, he learned, was an alchemy nerd. He didn’t dare tease him about it—this seemed too precious and fragile to poke fun at—but in the privacy of his own mind, Jaskier could admit it was _adorable_.

By the time evening rolled around, Jaskier was itching to do something that didn’t involve sitting quietly while cherry cordial boiled, so he grabbed his lute and presented himself to the tavern room. Lambert took a seat at the bar, facing away from it and leaning his elbows back on the counter, his attention focused on Jaskier’s performance. It gave him a strange, fluttery feeling in his gut to catch those yellow eyes tracking him so intently as he moved through the crowded room, fingers flying over the strings.

Jaskier broke out the less family-friendly songs that he’d avoided yesterday in the marketplace, when his audience was largely composed of children. And if he happened to stare straight at Lambert whenever it was time to belt out some of the raunchier lyrics, well, _coincidence_. His gaze had to fall somewhere. (He’d really been very well behaved all day, and no one had ever described him as a bottomless well of self-control. Honestly, he was only _human_ , and it was obvious even through Lambert’s clothes that the man was chiseled like a marble statue, and if his cock was even half as fantastic as his arse…)

Focus, Jaskier, _focus_. He had to repeat a verse because he’d missed the key change, but luckily his audience was drunk enough that no one seemed to notice.

He finished the set and took a break to join Lambert at the bar—just to wet his whistle, not for any other reason. There was a beer waiting for him next the Lambert’s elbow, and he tried not to read into that. He took a few deep swallows, slaking his thirst, before setting the mug down with a satisfied, “Ah.”

Lambert grabbed his arm and dragged him a step closer. The witcher’s voice was low and rough and just for his ears. “You’ve been eye-fucking me all night, bard.”

Jaskier’s breath caught in his throat and his eyes went wide. “Um. Excuse me?”

“Don’t give me that innocent look.” Lambert stared at him, implacable, his expression difficult to read.

Jaskier picked up his mug again so he could hide behind it. “I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

Lambert scrutinized him for a moment longer, huffed, and tipped his own mug back to drain the last of his beer. Then he was off his barstool and storming up the stairs before Jaskier could blink twice.

“Wait! What—” Jaskier scrambled to follow him. Was he angry? _Please don’t let him be angry_. As much as Jaskier didn’t want to repeat the same mistakes he’d made with Geralt—trying to be only one version of himself—he also really didn’t want to fuck this up with Lambert.

He followed the witcher into their room, shrugging out of his lute strap and putting away the instrument, since this was a conversation that deserved his full attention. “Lambert, I swear I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable—”

Instead of yelling, Lambert backed him against the wall quite suddenly, eliciting a surprised and not very dignified _meep_ from Jaskier. The witcher’s palms planted on either side of Jaskier’s shoulders, essentially trapping him, and he became poignantly aware that all of Lambert’s _everything_ was very much in his personal space.

Lambert leaned so close Jaskier could feel the heat of him. “What do you want, buttercup?” he growled.

All the blood in Jaskier’s body was abandoning his upstairs brain and fleeing southward to warmer climes. He was half-hard already and dizzy with want, and he couldn’t quite believe this was happening.

“You,” Jaskier gasped. “I want you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up that next chapter, I expect we’ll be earning our “E” rating! Not so much slow burn as medium burn, I suppose, but if you’ve been looking forward to some smut and fluff, it’ll be here soon.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been madly working on this all evening, so there's probably typos. (I'll proofread it tomorrow, if typos drive you crazy and you want to wait.)

“What do you want, buttercup?” Lambert crowded into his space, posturing, backing Jaskier against the wall. He’d spent so many years observing Dominants, pretending to be Dominant himself, that falling into the role of the aggressor was second nature.

He could hear the bard’s pulse spiking, his breath turning to shallow gasps. “You. I want you.”

Lambert snorted derisively. “What, you wanna try to win some kind of Dominant pissing contest against a fuckin’ _witcher?_ Is that your kink?”

“Uh, no…” Jaskier’s voice trembled. “Oh gods, Lambert, you can _definitely_ just fuck me against the wall instead.”

Lambert blinked and backed up a step. “What?”

Jaskier swallowed heavily. “I know I’m… basically only good for a novelty fuck, and no one wants a sub who can’t be submissive all the time, but I’ll try to be good for you, I swear.”

There was a ringing in Lambert’s ears. He felt like he’d been skewered by an invisible knife. Those words… those were words that could’ve fallen out of _Lambert’s_ mouth.

“Are you mocking me?!” he snarled.

“Mocking…? What— how is that—” The confusion that crossed his face seemed genuine. Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head as if to clear it. “Lambert, I—I’m a switch.”

Lambert reeled. He’d half-expected that when confronted directly about the flirting, Jaskier would back off and admit it was some sort of perverse game—maybe he was toying with Lambert just to see how he reacted, to get a rise out of him. He was completely unprepared for the object of his attraction to reveal he was a switch and ask to be _fucked against a wall_.

But Lambert was nothing if not adaptable.

He leaned back in and pressed his mouth hungrily to Jaskier’s. He felt starved for something, _anything_ , whatever he could get, even if he could never ask a human for what he truly needed. Jaskier gasped deliciously at the first brush of lips, and Lambert plunged his tongue inside, fucking into the bard’s mouth like a filthy promise.

Jaskier’s hands were suddenly everywhere—stroking, exploring, strong fingers digging into his muscles, the touch like a fire under his skin. _Fuck_ that was dangerous, those fucking _hands_ , he could already sense the first tendrils of subspace plucking at the edges of his mind. He wanted to drop to his knees and choke himself on Jaskier’s cock, with those fingers gripped tight in his hair. Instead, he caught Jaskier’s wrists and pinned them against the wall; Jaskier moaned in response to the easy show of strength, a sound that shot straight to Lambert’s dick and did not help _at all_ to extinguish his burning need. He should really stop this before it progressed any further, but rational decision-making was not his strong suit.

He wasn’t gonna stop.

“No Dom voice,” Lambert growled in between kisses.

“Of course not,” Jaskier agreed breathlessly, “I’d never do that in bed with a Dom, unless they specifically requested it…”

Lambert pulled away and held Jaskier in place when he tried to chase the kiss. “No, I mean none at all. I won’t use it either. It’s too easy to sway someone into agreeing to something they don’t actually consent to.” Of course, the real reason he wouldn’t use his Dom voice in bed was that he didn’t _have_ a Dom voice, but that didn’t make his explanation any less true.

Jaskier blinked, as if he were so kiss-drunk that the words were taking a moment to sink in, but then he flashed a disarming smile. “That’s very sweet, but there’s no need to worry on my account, dear witcher. I doubt there’s anything you want that I wouldn’t agree to, so command away, if you like.”

“Buttercup, please tell me you don’t allow random hook-ups to use their Dom voice on you. That’s incredibly fuckin’ dangerous.” Lambert’s heart clenched in his chest with _horror_ at the thought of how vulnerable that would make Jaskier. He let go of the bard’s wrists and backed up a couple steps, disengaging entirely.

“I’m a switch—adventurousness is what’s expected. And it’s not like I’m as susceptible to swaying as a sub would be.” Jaskier looked away and ran a hand through his hair, clearly trying to mask his discomfort. “Anyway, you’re hardly a random hook-up. I know your name and everything!” he added brightly.

Gods damn it, this was _definitely_ one of those situations where Lambert was acting on impulse instead of fuckin’ thinking things through like Eskel always admonished him to. He ran a palm over his mouth and chin, considering. He always pretended to be a Dom when he had sex, because he didn’t want anyone to find out the truth. The faking it part, at least, he could manage. This would be different from banging a submissive or a neutral, though—Jaskier had a Dom voice, so it’d be a little too easy for this particular bed partner to get the upper hand. Did he trust Jaskier to keep his word and not use his voice, even accidentally? He wanted to trust him, but Lambert had been stupid before enough times in his life to recognize _stupid_ when it showed up again.

Well. The bard just pretty much agreed to do anything he wanted, so… maybe with precautions…

“Can I—” Lambert’s throat went dry. “Can I tie your hands to the bedframe?” He carefully did not add, _because otherwise I won’t feel safe enough to do this_ , but something about the seriousness of his tone must have given him away.

“Yes,” Jaskier said, with total conviction. No questioning why, no cracking a joke about bondage kinks. Just boundaries being set and respected.

A prickly, exposed feeling crept along Lambert’s skin, as if the bard were seeing right through him, and his survival instinct told him to _fucking run_. But he hadn’t wanted anyone this bad in a really frickin’ long time, and Jaskier was currently dead-eyeing him while slowly undoing the buttons down the front of his doublet. _Gods_ he wanted the rest of those clothes to come off, and to be able to touch what was underneath. (Or better yet, have those nimble hands touching _him_ … no, don’t go there.)

Jaskier tossed his doublet over the back of a chair and shucked his thin white chemise over his head, revealing the lithe shape of his upper body, the healthy dusting of hair across his chest, and the narrow trail leading south from his belly button that made it _physically impossible_ for Lambert to not stare at the bulge in his trousers. Jaskier ran his teeth over his lower lip and then closed in on Lambert, kissing up his neck, his erection hot as a brand against Lambert’s hip even through layers of cloth. Jaskier found the hem of his shirt and peeled it off him; those clever hands didn’t touch Lambert’s bare chest, but the bard’s gaze was so heated that it _felt_ like a physical caress. When Jaskier did touch him, it was to slide a hand up the inside of his thigh, stopping just short of his throbbing, hard cock. Lambert swallowed a whine and locked his suddenly weak knees.

Jaskier murmured low and sultry, “You get the rope, I’ll get the oil.”

Lambert drew in a sharp breath and turned away, focusing on the task of rifling through his saddlebags for a length of rope. He was supposed to be Domming, damn it, or at least pretending to—he seriously needed to get a fucking grip.

When Lambert straightened, rope in hand, he almost choked on his own tongue at what he saw: the bard knelt on the bed naked with his wrists crossed and resting on the top edge of the headboard. Jaskier glanced over his shoulder coquettishly. “This where you want me?”

Gods damn. Lambert’s dick twitched and he wasn’t even _actually_ a Dom. “Yeah.” He swallowed. “That’s good.”

He stood next to the bed and tied Jaskier’s wrists together with a quick, expert twist of rope, then looped the end of the rope around the bedframe, leaving enough slack that Jaskier would have some mobility. (In his mind, he tried not to liken the bard to a horse tied to a picket line, but the comparison was _right there_.) Even though Jaskier wasn’t secured tightly enough to satisfy a restraint kink, there was still something incredibly charged between them now, like static buzzing in the air. There was no whiff of fear in the bard’s scent; most of the human subs who wanted to bang a witcher were turned on by the threat of danger, but with Jaskier, there was only this intense, almost _electric_ trust.

Jaskier wet his lips. “Please tell me we can move on to the part of the program where you fuck my brains out, now.”

“I dunno, maybe I should teach you some gods-damned patience.” Lambert chuckled as he liberated his own erection from the confines of his trousers.

“I’ve been patient.” Jaskier pouted. “I’ve waited _all week_ and if I wait any longer they’ll have to nominate me for sainthood.”

Lambert knelt on the bed behind him, spreading his thighs around the bard’s narrow hips and slipping a hand down to press into the sensitive spot behind Jaskier’s balls. “Well we can’t have that. You’d make a terrible saint.”

“I’ll have you know I’d make a— fff—” Jaskier stuttered as Lambert ran a fingertip over his puckered hole.

He reached for the oil on the bedside table and then pressed one slicked finger inside. “What was that? I didn’t quite catch what you were saying,” Lambert teased, slowly pumping the finger in and out.

“Oh fuck you, I forget,” Jaskier breathed. “All I want is your cock in me _now_ , please.”

Lambert added a second finger and nipped gentle bites up Jaskier’s back and across his shoulders as he worked him open. He felt like he was _on fire_ , and the act of preparing someone else made him intensely aware of his own emptiness. There was a part of him that ached to be filled, to feel someone deep inside him, to be _taken apart_ while riding their cock. But the possibility of ever doing that again had turned to ash on Aiden’s funeral pyre.

This would do, instead. He could find pleasure enough in this.

Jaskier kept his hands atop the headboard for added leverage as he lifted himself up, shifted his hips a little so Lambert could line up his cock, and sank slowly down onto Lambert’s shaft. Lambert groaned at the incredible heat and pressure around him, resisting the urge to start thrusting right away. The bard settled back into his lap, flushed and quivering, just warming Lambert’s cock inside that tight little arse. He leaned his head back against Lambert’s shoulder, eyes half-lidded as if already doped on the first hints of subspace.

“Oh fuck,” Jaskier hissed. “You feel so good inside me, I’m so full.”

Lambert ran his hands up Jaskier’s thighs and grabbed his hips, encouraging him to start moving. Soon the bard was bouncing on his cock with fucking _fervor_ , Lambert thrusting up to meet him, heat coiling in his core and sweat trickling down his spine. The bard kept making noises that ought to be illegal outside a whorehouse, and it was driving Lambert _wild_.

“Oh gods, Jask, you’re so fucking perfect,” he growled against the back of the bard’s neck. “When I figure out who made you feel like nothing but a fucking novelty, I’m gonna rip out their spine and beat them with it.”

“Hrnnh— mmph— the _things_ you _say_ ,” Jaskier gasped, as if Lambert had declared his undying love instead of threatening bodily harm to some unspecified person from Jaskier’s past.

But maybe those two things weren’t so terribly different, Lambert mused. He was feeling a bit sex-drunk himself now, and awfully… _fond_ of Jaskier and… oh shit, _shit_ , he shook his head to clear it. Even while topping, his deprived brain was managing to slip toward subspace.

He tightened his grip on Jaskier’s hips and dragged him backward away from the headboard until there was enough room for Jaskier to drop onto his elbows with an adorable little _oof_ of surprise. Lambert rose up on his knees began railing the bard with _purpose_ , adjusting his angle until he was hitting that spot inside with every thrust, the proof in how Jaskier shook and cried out in pleasure.

“Oooh please, please…”

Jaskier didn’t quite succeed in articulating what he was begging for, but Lambert could guess. He fisted Jaskier’s weeping prick and stripped it time with his thrusts. Soon the bard was shaking apart in his arms and coming so hard his arse pulsed like a vise around Lambert’s cock, wrenching his own orgasm out of him in a flash of white hot pleasure.

Lambert pulled out with a wince and shifted over to collapse on the bed beside Jaskier. He wasn’t out of breath the way a human might be, but he still felt pleasantly spent, the tension bled out of his muscles, the afterglow warm in his core. Jaskier scooted closer, rolling onto his side so they were face to face, and he looped his arms over Lambert’s head with no hint of awkward self-consciousness, as if he often hugged people with his hands tied together.

“What—” Lambert tried to say, but his words were cut off by Jaskier kissing him, slow and sweet and messy, and… it was nice, really nice actually. Jaskier’s fingers rubbed the nape of his neck, so soothing, and Lambert broke the kiss to press his face into the crook of the bard’s shoulder. Jaskier smelled of sex and sweat but also almond and sandalwood, and Lambert was so relaxed and so safe… his brain was rushing toward that warm, floaty place, and while he was vaguely aware that he shouldn’t go there, he couldn’t seem to remember why.

Relief wrapped around him like a soft blanket, and his thoughts smoothed out and went silent. Nothing left but bliss.

.o.O.o.

Jaskier was very confused, but he wasn’t about to look a gift sub in the mouth.

Lambert was _down—_ face-planted into Jaskier’s shoulder, limbs turned to jelly, purring like a kitten as Jaskier ran fingers through his hair and stroked down his neck and shoulders (as best he could with his wrists still tied together, anyway). Jaskier hummed an old elven lullaby, content to lie here and help Lambert float in subspace for as long as he needed.

Jaskier’s ribcage seemed too small to contain his swelling heart, he was just so full of tender affection for this ridiculous man. He felt sated in every way possible; he’d transitioned smoothly from subspace to domspace in a single session, something he’d only ever achieved before when invited to a threesome. Usually it was a married couple looking to spice up their sex life with a taste of the exotic. Never had a single partner done that for him.

 _You’re so fucking perfect_. It almost hurt to hope that someone could accept all of him, the way he was, for more than a single night of curiosity.

Jaskier let himself drift, feeling gratified and fulfilled by the submissive in his arms. He should probably worry about why Lambert hadn’t simply asked to be Dommed, but it was hard to muster any negative emotion while he was getting to take care of his witcher. Lambert shifted a little, starting to rouse, and Jaskier nuzzled into his hair contentedly.

Lambert squirmed, more insistent this time, and Jaskier loosened his hold so the witcher wouldn’t feel confined as he regained his senses. Lambert blinked, disoriented, his eyes seeming to have trouble focusing on Jaskier’s face.

“It’s okay,” Jaskier murmured softly. “We’re safe in our room at the inn, in White Bridge. It’s nighttime—we can go to sleep, or I could maybe raid the kitchen, if you’re hungry…”

Lambert didn’t seem to be listening to these options, though. He was tensing up, his expression turning to stone, his eyes widening a little in panic. Jaskier wasn’t sure why Lambert was subdropping so hard and so fast, and being tied up was really not an optimal position from which to administer aftercare.

“Can you take a deep breath for me, darling?” Jaskier said, determined to remain a steady, calming influence through whatever this was.

His arms were pushed out of the way roughly as Lambert ducked out of reach and lunged off the bed, rather graceless and uncoordinated so soon after subspace.

“Lambert…?”

The witcher ignored him and threw on his clothes like he was late for a monster hunt.

“Lambert, please calm down and come back to bed. Everything’s all right.”

He jammed his feet into his boots and stuffed his possessions back into his saddlebags with a furious, single-minded precision. He settled his scabbards onto his shoulder and _oh gods_ he really meant it, didn’t he? Lambert fully intended to walk out, right now, in the middle of the night without saying a word.

Jaskier scrabbled at the ropes, but he couldn’t reach the knot tying his wrists together. “Fuck, Lambert, please!” He was desperate, starting to panic himself now, because _it was happening again_ he was going to lose his witcher. “ **Lambert, don’t leave me!** ”

Lambert finally turned to him, but it was to bare his teeth and let loose a ferocious growl, and Jaskier immediately realized he’d just made it worse, deploying his Dom voice like that.

“I’m sorry, please I didn’t mean—” he babbled as Lambert practically tore the door off its hinges in his haste to flee the room. “No! Fuck!” He yanked at the rope in frustration, which didn’t help at all and probably just made the knots tighter.

Lambert was gone, and Jaskier was naked in bed, sobbing, still tied to the headboard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’M SO SORRY. Lambert’s not quite as ready for the “comfort” portion of this Hurt/Comfort fic as y’all are, but I promise it is coming. This is not the end for our prickly witcher and intrepid bard.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so behind on responding to comments, but trust that I do love to hear from y’all! It is very motivating.
> 
> As many of you pointed out in response to the last chapter, don’t ever leave someone unattended when they’re tied up. It’s super unsafe! Bad form, Lambert. (/end public service announcement)
> 
> Mild content warning in this chapter for bad headspace and self-destructive behavior.

In his many years of debauchery, Jaskier had been caught in a number of compromising positions, so he felt only a mild swell of humiliation when poor darling Agatha had to come to his rescue and cut him free of the bedframe. At least it only an innkeeper and not a murderous spouse who discovered him in flagrante, this time.

The sting of being left in an embarrassing and vulnerable position was small in comparison to the pain of being abandoned at all—just insult added to injury. The truth was, even eight months after the dragon hunt, Jaskier was still sore from Geralt ending their friendship and breaking his heart in one fell swoop. Lambert’s abrupt departure felt like a fresh kick to already broken ribs.

But dwelling on his hurt feelings would be a pointless waste of precious time; from previous experience, Jaskier knew that a witcher storming off in the middle of the night was likely to followed by an immediate need for bloody carnage. Lambert may have been well enough to deliver a truly epic plowing, but he should not be chasing after monsters while angry and distracted and still healing. Jaskier needed to keep a level head and gather some information before deciding on a course of action.

Griffin was still in the stables on the south shore. Jaskier tried very hard not to panic about this. It didn’t necessarily mean anything that Lambert had left the horse behind—the beast was injured, and Lambert didn’t seem overly sentimental about Griffin to begin with. Abandoning the horse could have been a practical decision. But when he discovered that the armorer was still in possession of Lambert’s gear, _then_ Jaskier felt it was entirely appropriate to start panicking. A witcher wouldn’t leave town without his armor if he was thinking straight; clearly something about their night together had set him off. Lambert was spiraling, and Jaskier was powerless to help because the prickly arsehole _ran away_ from him like Jaskier was a trap he needed to escape.

Jaskier spent the morning questioning the locals, because it wouldn’t do any good to go chasing after Lambert if he didn’t even know in which direction to chase. Eventually he found a baker’s apprentice who had been both awake in the middle of the night and sober enough to be a useful witness (since he’d been setting dough to rise for the morning’s bread, instead of drinking). The apprentice had noticed a “scary man with two swords” walking the main road north to cross the river into Redania.

He collected his things from the inn and Griffin from the stables, and he set out across the massive drawbridge that gave the town its name.

.o.O.o.

Lambert’s abdomen was screaming, the half-healed muscles knotted tight and stiff from walking too fast for too long. But pain was what he deserved—he was so fucking stupid, too stupid to _live_. It was amazing he’d lasted seventy years on the Path before he inevitably detonated his entire fucking existence like a unstable bomb. No one would want to hire a submissive witcher; once word got out, it was _over_ for him, and as much as he resented what had been done to make him into a witcher, at this point in his life, it was all he had.

Now he’d ruined everything. And for what? Because he just _had_ to get his dick wet? Decades of practice resisting his urges, but a little gentle touching from Jaskier and he fell into subspace like a fuckin’ teenager. What was _wrong_ with him? Why couldn’t he control himself around the bard?

He should find a contract, right now, before the rumors spread. It would likely be his last one; he’d need the money to get himself back to Kaer Morhen. No, no, what was he thinking? He couldn’t go crawling home with his tail between his legs. He could handle Vesemir’s disapproval—he’d always been something of a disappointment to Vesemir—but come winter, he’d have to explain how badly he’d fucked up to his brothers, and losing Geralt’s respect might actually kill him.

If Lambert wasn’t a witcher, he was _nothing_. Just a worthless piece of shit with yellow eyes.

Rummaging through his bags, he pulled out one of the bottles of White Gull and popped the cork. He just needed to take the edge off the awful cramping pain in his abdomen and the acid-sharp panic in his chest. The burn of high-proof alcohol hit the back of his throat and flared up until he could feel it in his nostrils. Soon, colors danced at the periphery of his vision as the mild hallucinogenic effects settled in. Intoxication didn’t mute the pain or the dread, but it brought some distance to them, made it possible for Lambert to push the feelings to the back of his mind instead of being consumed by them.

Forget the coin from a contract. He needed something to _kill_.

.o.O.o.

In the closest hamlet on the north bank of the river, Jaskier asked around, but no one had seen a witcher passing through. That… that was fine, it didn’t necessarily mean anything, the hamlet was an outlying settlement of a larger town, and a witcher looking for contracts would have gone straight on to the main town. But when Jaskier arrived there, he found a ghoul contract still nailed to the notice board, and no sign of Lambert.

The witcher was avoiding human settlements. Fuck. How was Jaskier supposed to catch up with him now?

.o.O.o.

It took Jaskier the better part of three weeks to find a mage with enough power to cast a tracking spell to locate the nearest witcher. Apparently, all the bloody sorceresses on the whole damn continent went south to Sodden to fight against Nilfgaard, and most of them had yet to return. (And if he felt a spike of worry for his sort-of nemesis, Yennefer, well… Jaskier had always had a problem with being excessively compassionate.) He had to walk all the way to sodding Tretogor, and then perform for three nights to earn enough extra coin to afford the sorcerer’s services.

So now he was standing outside a tavern in a small Redanian town whose name he hadn’t bothered to read off the signposts, the small stone witcher-detection charm pulsing excitedly in his palm, his stomach in knots. What if it was Lambert inside? What if it _wasn’t_ Lambert? Oh gods, what if he’d accidentally tracked down _Geralt_ , instead?

“You could always go in there and check it out for me,” he said to Griffin, “couldn’t you, boy?”

The horse just gazed at him placidly.

“Hmph. Roach would’ve at least snorted at that.”

He tied Griffin to the hitching post and took him lute with him, because a stolen horse would be an inconvenience but a stolen lute would _break_ Jaskier. Inside, the tavern was a bit smoky and a bit noisy, but not so crowded as to make it difficult to scan the patrons’ faces. The charmed bauble vibrated in his hand like the heartbeat of a hummingbird as he stepped his way through the room. And… _there_ : a distinct, muscley hulk of a man lurking in a dark corner. The witcher was neither Lambert nor Geralt, and disappointment warred with relief.

The witcher’s face was shadowed behind chin-length dark hair, but when he glanced up at Jaskier’s approach, it revealed extensive scarring down his right cheek and across his mouth. The scars were serious enough to bypass _sexy_ and go straight for _disfiguring_ , and there were presumably a lot of humans who would take one look at that mug and run the other way, but Jaskier didn’t have time to get hung up on superficial appearances. The man had yellow eyes and two swords—good enough.

Standing next to the witcher’s table, Jaskier reached out and lifted the amulet that hung around the man’s neck, tilting it in the light to check that the pattern was, indeed, a wolf’s head. The witcher stiffened in his seat and then grabbed Jaskier’s wrist, moving his hand away firmly.

“Can I help you?” the witcher ground out with a disbelieving raise of his eyebrows, as if he were completely gobsmacked to have some random human walk up and touch him.

“I certainly hope so,” said Jaskier, retracting his hand from the witcher’s grip. “You’re School of the Wolf.”

The witcher just stared at him, so Jaskier helped himself to the chair on the opposite side of the table.

“My name is Jaskier, and I require assistance with tracking down one of your compatriots.”

“Jaskier. The bard.” The witcher looked him up and down with a hint of curiosity or perhaps amusement. “Sorry to say, but I don’t keep tabs on Geralt, so if you’ve lost your boyfriend that’s your business.”

“Geralt was never—” Jaskier sputtered, his face heating before he cut himself off. “I’m sure he’d be crushed to hear it, but not everything is about Geralt, you know. I was actually traveling with Lambert for a bit. He uh… got upset, and now I can’t find him.”

The witcher scoffed. “Lambert, hanging out with Geralt’s bard. Now this I gotta see sometime.”

“So glad I could brighten your day with some unintended amusement,” he said sarcastically. “And I’m sorry, but can I have your name?”

“Eskel.”

That sounded vaguely familiar, at least, though it wasn’t as if Geralt was forthcoming about his past, so Jaskier didn’t know exactly how much he should trust this witcher. “I take it from your reaction that you know Lambert. And perhaps…” He licked his lips nervously before going on. “Perhaps would be concerned if he were in distress…?”

“Lambert can be kind of a prick,” Eskel hedged. “Are you sure he didn’t just ditch you?”

“Excuse me, but I do know the difference,” Jaskier replied, affronted. “I have been _just ditched_ by a witcher before, on several occasions actually, and not once did Geralt leave behind his horse _and his armor_.”

Eskel sucked in a breath. “He left without his armor? Fuck.”

“Indeed. My sentiments exactly.”

“What happened?”

“We…” Jaskier chewed his lip, and then finished lamely, “…had a misunderstanding.”

“Yeah, you’re gonna have to do better than that. _A misunderstanding_ gives me no information about his mental state.”

Jaskier rubbed his hands down his face, torn—the witcher might refuse to help him, but he didn’t feel right sharing the details. “I can’t tell you what happened. I get the sense that this is an intensely personal matter for Lambert, and violating his privacy now will certainly not help my case.”

The witcher’s hand fisted where it rested atop the table and a muscle in his jaw twitched. “Bard, stop dancing around the issue and tell me exactly what the fuck you did to Lambert, or so help me…”

“I really can’t.”

Eskel’s glare intensified. “Bards don’t really need all ten fingers, do they?”

Jaskier felt the blood drain from his face and an awful queasiness take up residence in his stomach. He didn’t know this man—he’d be a fool to assume his threats were empty, just because Geralt would never have hurt him like that. Still, his mind was made up. “It’s not mine to share.”

Eskel stared. A shiver crawled down Jaskier’s spine.

“Will you help me find him so I can make this right—before he gets himself hurt, or worse?”

The witcher snorted and leaned back in his chair, breaking off with the intimidation tactics. “You really are a persistent little bastard, aren’t you?”

It had the ring of something Geralt must have said about him, and he flashed a pained smile. “I am nothing if not persistent.”

.o.O.o.

As luck would have it, Eskel had just finished a contract and was thus free to gather his bags and his horse and set out immediately. While the witcher tacked his horse, Jaskier explained how the tracking charm worked and where he’d acquired it, though it was useless now, buzzing constantly in Eskel’s presence.

“At least that saves us a nice big chunk of Redania we _don’t_ have to search, since we know he’s not closer to Tretogor than I am here.”

Jaskier fingered the strap of his lute case where it rested across his chest. “So… that’s the plan, then? We just bumble around searching for him—you don’t have a more direct way of getting in contact?”

“Lambert’s a paranoid fucker, he’s got boltholes all over the Continent,” said Eskel. “I know where most of them are, so we’ll start there.”

“Right. Good.”

Jaskier smiled, relieved. It wasn’t a flawless plan, but surely a witcher would be better skilled at hunting down one of their own brethren than a mouthy bard was. They both mounted up, ready to head out.

“Off we go, Griffin,” Jaskier said, tapping his heels on the horse’s sides. “Let’s find your master.”

“Lambert named his horse Griffin?” Eskel said skeptically.

“Uh, no. I named him Griffin, because Lambert hadn’t named him _at all_ and it was a travesty.”

Eskel chuckled, though his mirth faded to something more like resignation when he said, “Yeah, that’s Lambert all right.”

They headed north, Jaskier following the witcher’s lead. Eskel had a stiffness and distance to his demeanor that reminded him a bit of Geralt when they’d first met, though he was significantly less grumpy and more willing to exchange words. Whole sentences, even.

Jaskier was also strangely relieved to note that—despite what was definitely an impressive physique under that studded red leather armor—there was no sexual tension between them. It had occurred to Jaskier that Geralt might have left him with something of a witcher fetish, and the thought that he might have been attracted to _witcher_ more than to _Lambert_ made him uncomfortable. Apparently that wasn’t the case, though. He spent the whole afternoon riding next to another objectively smoking-hot witcher, and all he could think about was Lambert.

They made it to the first of Lambert’s safehouses just before dark. Although the safehouse might be more accurately described as a safe _shack_ —it was an abandoned hovel on the edge of a swamp, with no windows and seriously questionable structural integrity. Jaskier could tell from the disappointed slump of Eskel’s shoulders that the witcher wasn’t picking up any signs of recent use, but it was too late in the evening to do anything but picket the horses, set up camp inside Lambert’s shack, and wait for tomorrow.

It had no fireplace, so they spread their bedrolls out on the dirt floor and gnawed on a meal of cold travel rations. Eskel was quiet, a frown line pulling together his brows, and his responses to Jaskier’s running commentary were starting to sound like Geralt-worthy grunts. Eskel, he realized, was nervous. Jaskier had been trying to find Lambert for almost a month now and had settled into the expectation that it would take a while, but Eskel had only just learned that there was reason to worry.

Jaskier took out his lute, reclined against his travel pack, and began plucking the melancholy accompaniment to the song he was working on. Eskel seemed to relax incrementally, lulled by the music despite himself. (Jaskier was, after all, a professional at this.)

“It’s strange, you know,” he said, damping the strings with his palm. “I went twenty years without meeting any of Geralt’s people, and now all of a sudden I’ve traveled with two of them.”

“Yeah, you’ve pretty much done the rounds of the Wolf School now.”

“What, really?” Jaskier sat up a little. “You three are all that’s left?”

Eskel shrugged. “Well there’s Berengar, but he keeps to himself. Coen visits with us sometimes at Kaer Morhen, but he’s technically Griffin School. Most winters it’s just the three of us, and Vesemir.”

Jaskier swallowed around a suddenly tight throat. That was more information about the inner lives of witchers than Geralt had given him in two decades, and Eskel just… offered it up. Like it cost him nothing to trust Jaskier. “You shouldn’t share that sort of thing with strange humans you’ve just met.”

Eskel gave him a steady look. “Jaskier… you’ve derailed your whole life to chase after my asshole little brother just to make sure he’s okay. That’d buy you some consideration even if you hadn’t spent most of your adult life writing songs about how great my other brother is.”

He didn’t know how to answer that. _I want to take care of Lambert more than I want air to breathe_ was probably a bit much to confess, given that he’d known Lambert for only a week. So Jaskier just nodded and went back to playing the lute for a little while, until he was tired enough to sleep.

.o.O.o.

In the morning, they headed west, riding harder than Jaskier was accustomed to for the next two days. His knees were sore and his lower back stiff, and frankly there was some unfortunate chafing going on in some rather private places. But the pace meant it was still daylight when Eskel reined to a halt below a rocky hillside with a cave mouth visible about halfway up.

Eskel froze, nostrils flared as he scented something beyond Jaskier’s ability to detect, then he dismounted.

“What? What is it?” Jaskier slid from Griffin’s saddle awkwardly, leaning against the horse for a moment until he was sure his legs would hold him.

“Woodsmoke,” said the witcher. “And… well…”

Eskel started climbing the rocky slope without finishing the thought, and Jaskier hurried to follow him. There was indeed an ashpile just inside the mouth of the cave, although the campfire had burned out. Eskel paused at the entrance, tension bunching across his shoulders.

“Is it—” Jaskier cut himself off with a startled gasp as something _moved_ in the shadows. Immediately, he felt embarrassed at his reaction, since Eskel had not reached for either of his swords, and the witcher could surely see in the dark well enough to know whether it was some sort of cave monster.

Instead of a cave monster, the _something_ that shuffled out into the light was Lambert.

Lambert looked—and smelled—like death. His eyes were hollow, his shoulders hunched, his motions stiff; he was limping badly enough that it was obvious even to Jaskier. He wore only trousers, no shirt or boots, and he’d lost weight. Lambert was all muscle and sinew now, every spare ounce gone, as if his body had been eating itself for the past month.

It was horrifying. Jaskier’s throat burned with unshed tears.

Lambert stared at them with stony disinterest. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comfort is coming soon, I promise!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild content warning for thoughts of self-harm, and also medical stuff.

Jaskier swallowed around the tightness in his throat, unable to speak, so it was Eskel who said, “We’re here for _you_ , dumbass.”

“Leave me alone, Eskel,” Lambert grumbled, and Jaskier felt a completely absurd swell of jealousy that Lambert’s baleful stare was focused on his brother instead of Jaskier.

“Like hell I will,” said Eskel.

There was something dull in his eyes, like he couldn’t quite muster his usual level of ire. “What’d you bring Geralt’s reject bard here for?”

“Excuse you,” Jaskier bristled. “ _I_ brought _him_.”

Lambert snorted. “Didn’t have enough juicy details for your next song?” He held his arms wide, as if to show himself off in his current state of ruination. “ _This_ enough of a scandal to satisfy you?”

Eskel shook his head. “Lambert, he wouldn’t even tell _me_ what happened. I threatened him with bodily harm, and he just clammed up and insisted it was private.”

Lambert’s mouth twisted into a bitter grimace, as if his inability to believe that Jaskier had kept his confidence was like a physical pain. He broke eye contact with Eskel and swayed slightly on his feet.

“Fuck’s sake, what have you done to yourself?” Eskel closed the distance, grabbed the back of Lambert’s neck, and shook him. “What would Geralt say if he saw you like this, huh?”

“ **Don’t touch him that way!** ” Jaskier commanded in a burst of over-protective panic, before he was really able to absorb the interaction. Lambert was spitting and hissing at Eskel like a feral cat, but he didn’t seem _surprised_ —this was clearly not the first time Eskel had Dommed him. “You… you _know_.”

Eskel stared at Jaskier with perfectly feigned blankness. “I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

“You can _both_ fuck off!” Lambert snarled.

“ **Oh, sit down before you fall down,** ” Eskel ordered, and Lambert petulantly complied, still growly and grumpy but no longer in danger of collapsing.

Only then did it become obvious that Lambert’s right pant leg was torn and stained. Jaskier crouched beside him, and up close even his human nose could detect that something was wrong. Yes, Lambert reeked of stale body odor and woodsmoke, but beneath the smell of unwashed man was a sickening undercurrent of putrefaction. Jaskier parted the torn flaps of cloth and sucked in a shocked breath—Lambert’s right foot and his entire lower leg from the knee down were swollen and discolored, and there was a jagged wound down the side of his calf that looked to be festering instead of healing.

“Good _gods_ Lambert, why didn’t you make some Golden Oriole?”

“Couldn’t.” He folded his arms peevishly. “Drank the White Gull.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened. “All of it?! We prepared three liters!”

Lambert didn’t reply, refusing to meet his gaze.

Jaskier prodded beside the wound with his thumbs, examining—the skin was tight and hot, the flesh much too firm. “Fuck, this is _bad_.” Jaskier became aware of a wetness on his cheeks and scrubbed at the tears with the back of his wrist. “You do realize that if you were human, we’d be talking _amputation_ right now?”

“If I were human, I’d be dead already from the cockatrice toxin. Problem solved.”

Jaskier looked up at Eskel imploringly. “I need a clean knife and whatever medical supplies you have.”

Eskel drew a narrow-bladed dagger from his boot and sterilized the blade with a controlled flash of igni (which made Lambert grumble _show-off_ under his breath). He passed the blade to Jaskier and inclined his head downslope toward the horses. “I’ll grab some Golden Oriole, too.”

Jaskier hesitated and glanced at Lambert, who still avoided eye contact. “We’ve got to drain this and open it up for the topical application to work.”

“Whatever.”

Jaskier took that as tacit agreement and steadied his hand to work. The long gash didn’t so much have a healthy scab as a crust of dried blood and pus, and Jaskier dug into it with the sharp tip of the dagger, clearing the gaping wound of gunk that would only serve to trap the inflammation inside. Lambert’s leg jerked reflexively from the pain—Jaskier pulled the knife away in time to prevent further injury, but Lambert’s heel connected with his thigh hard enough to bruise. “Ow. **Hold still.** ”

“Fuck off,” Lambert growled.

Eskel was climbing back up the hill with his alchemy and medical bags in hand, but clearly overheard this exchange. He crouched behind Lambert and rested a hand on his shoulder, thumb pressed to the back of his neck. “Don’t make me scruff you like a puppy, little wolf.”

“Don’t call me that, I’m not fucking fourteen anymore,” Lambert groused.

“Coulda fooled me, the way you’ve been acting. Sit still and let the bard work.” He rummaged in the alchemy bag, pulling out a potion. “And while you’re at it, drink this. The whole dose—I’ve got a second one for topical.”

Jaskier clamped his jaw down on the irrational urge to snap at Eskel for touching Lambert. He’d never been the territorial type before, but his nerves were frayed and his Dom side was screaming with need to protect his sub. “Some boiled water wouldn’t go amiss,” he said in a clipped tone.

Eskel eyed him thoughtfully, but nodded his acquiescence and fetched some water in a cookpot. While the witcher used igni to quickly boil it, Jaskier finished scraping open the wound. The whole length of the gash was now oozing black and yellow fluids, which… well, better out than in, but the smell made even Jaskier want to gag. He looked up and caught Lambert’s gaze resting on him intently.

“Why are you here, Jask?”

He set aside the blade and scrubbed his hands clean on a rag. “Is it so impossible to believe that I care about what happens to you? I went to considerable trouble to keep you alive after the griffins—I’m invested.”

“You knew me for all of a week, and then you wasted a month chasing after me. That makes no sense.”

Jaskier reached up to run his fingers through Lambert’s greasy, desperately-in-need-of-a-wash hair, smoothing it back out of his face. Lambert shivered at the touch, and Jaskier murmured, “What is time, anyway?”

Lambert stared at him like Jaskier was a well he wanted to fall into. The silence stretched.

Jaskier cleared his throat and turned to Eskel. “How’s that water coming along? Cool enough to use?”

He flushed the wound with the boiled water twice, then splashed it with Golden Oriole. The potion fizzed and foamed on contact with the traces of poison, and Lambert gritted his teeth against the pain, huffing out small wordless noises of discomfort. When the bubbling potion subsided, Jaskier retrieved some clean linen gauze from Eskel’s medical bag and packed it into the wound to help with drainage. Then he bandaged the leg loosely, so the dressings wouldn’t restrict blood flow if the swelling worsened overnight.

While Jaskier worked, Eskel set off into the woods with his crossbow. Jaskier cajoled Lambert into drinking some water, but he didn’t dare try food yet—they couldn’t afford to risk the possibility of Lambert vomiting up the Golden Oriole before it was fully absorbed into his system. Instead, he unrolled his own bedroll (gods only knew what had happened to Lambert’s) and manhandled Lambert onto it, where the witcher proceeded to lie, tense and glowering.

“If you refuse to go to sleep on your own, I’ll be forced to pet you,” Jaskier said reasonably.

Lambert huffed, embarrassed. “Fuck off.”

But he made no attempt to stop Jaskier from following through on the threat. He simply rolled onto his left side, facing away as if to maintain plausible deniability as Jaskier brushed a hand over his head and down his spine in long, soothing strokes. By the time Eskel returned with a pair of quails and a handful of wild onions, Lambert was snoring lightly, face slack with exhaustion. Eskel built up a stack of wood, lit it with igni, and started butchering the quails over the cookpot, and Jaskier rose quietly to join him at the campfire.

“He’s asleep,” said Eskel, not really a question—he could probably hear it in Lambert’s heartbeat and breath rate.

“Yeah,” Jaskier agreed. “Should I wake him?”

“Nah, quail stew takes a good three hours to simmer.” Eskel worked in silence until there was no more prep to be done, and then stared at his empty hands as if he were lost without an immediate task to focus on. “I’ve never seen a poisoned wound go so long without treatment. Just… tell me he’s not gonna lose the leg.”

“I… I don’t know.” Jaskier sighed. “I spent a winter auditing classes in the Department of Medicine at Oxenfurt, after one too many times watching Geralt come back from a hunt and simply ignore his injuries until they went away. But it’s not like there was a lesson on what to do with witchers who’ve been stumbling around with a lethal dose of cocktrice toxin embedded in their limb.”

“Fuck.” Eskel rubbed the back of his hand over the scarred side of his face. “We can’t take him into town looking like that. And he’s not gonna get better hiding in a fucking cave.”

A terrible, gloriously ironic solution occurred to Jaskier, because clearly Destiny was fucking with him. “We’re only a day’s travel to the coast. I know a place—it’s comfortable and private.” He laughed bitterly. “This is really not how I wanted to get my vacation by the sea.”

.o.O.o.

Lambert woke in the dark with his leg throbbing like a drum and Jaskier wrapped around him like an octopus. He felt like shit, which was only appropriate, because after all he _was_ a piece of shit, wasn’t he? Eskel’s disappointment felt like barbs under his skin—he couldn’t handle it, it made him want to hurt _more_ , just so the internal anguish of his worthlessness would have somewhere to go, an outlet. Dig it out like the poison Jaskier drained from his wound. But this was a vicious circle—if he hurt himself, or even let himself be hurt again the way he’d done with the cockatrice, that would only disappoint Eskel further.

Instead, Lambert flexed and pointed his right foot, the motion pulling at the open gash in his calf and sending tight spikes of agony up his leg all the way to his hip. The pain woke him all the way up, making him acutely aware of the warm-bodied bard snuggling against his back, as if he didn’t reek like something dragged out of a bog by drowners. Lambert didn’t deserve this. He was a fuck-up, he was disgusting and broken. He tried to wriggle away but Jaskier’s arms just tightened around him.

“No,” the bard murmured firmly, still half-asleep. He didn’t use Dom voice, but something buried deep in Lambert’s brain responded as if he had, settling down toward sleep because he was safe in the arms of his Dominant. Lambert couldn’t find the strength to fight that pull.

.o.O.o.

When he woke in the gray light of pre-dawn, Lambert extricated himself from Jaskier’s cuddling enough to sit up. Eskel immediately roused from his meditation, and he reheated a bowl of stew for him. The oily broth and gamy bits of bird meat stirred up a feral, ravenous hunger in him, but he knew from experience to take it slow. He only got through half the bowl before his stomach clenched ominously and he had to stop, but even that little nourishment was enough to improve his condition.

Jaskier joined them in wakefulness after a while, bleary and grumbling about how dawn was only meant to be experienced after an extended night of carousing. But he went straight for the bandages around Lambert’s leg to check the wound.

Now that the food had helped to clear Lambert’s mind a bit, the possibility that he could lose the leg was fucking terrifying. So much worse than dying would be—a three-limbed witcher was about as useful as tits on a bull. He clamped his jaw shut and said nothing, though, because he was the dumbass who got himself into this mess in the first place. Jaskier flushed the wound again and poured more Golden Oriole into it, which stung like a frickin’ swarm of hornets crawling inside his leg. Then he poked and prodded and redressed it more snugly than he had yesterday.

Jaskier sat back with a relieved sigh and offered him a smile. “It’s improving. I think you’ll make a full recovery.”

Lambert carefully didn’t react, so it was Eskel who said, “Well thank fuck for that.”

“I’d guess it’ll be another day before riding will be tolerable,” Jaskier said. “Longer if you had to walk, but lucky for you, Griffin deigned to come with me.”

Eskel grunted and stood. “Need fresh food, if we’re staying. I’ll go forage.”

Lambert watched Eskel leave, waiting until he was out of earshot before saying, “He’s avoiding me.”

“He was very scared for you, I think,” said Jaskier.

Lambert snorted. “Pissed off at me, more like.”

“No…” Jaskier said carefully, as if he didn’t want to start an argument. “You frightened him. He cares about you.”

Lambert stared resolutely into the distance, avoiding the bard’s shrewd gaze. He didn’t know what to do with that; he somehow felt suspicious of Jaskier’s assessment and yet guilty over Eskel’s upset at the same time. “Stubborn whoreson doesn’t know when to walk away,” he grumbled, trying and failing to re-route this mess of confused emotions into an anger he could understand.

While Eskel was away, Jaskier busied himself about the campsite—gathering deadwood for a fire, taking the horses to the nearby stream for watering and then returning them to the picket line to graze. When he ran out of tasks, he returned to the cave mouth with his lute and sat nearby without crowding Lambert, his fingers dancing over the strings. He hummed along with some of the songs, but didn’t sing, as if worried it might be irritating.

After a while, Jaskier’s hands went still, the last chord hanging in the air and slowly fading. He eyed Lambert speculatively. “I did write a song about you,” he admitted. “I’m afraid it won’t make much sense to a general audience, but I could play it for you now, if you like.”

Lambert’s heart clenched painfully in his chest; he didn’t know if he could bear hearing his patheticness immortalized by Jaskier, but all he said was, “Whatever. I don’t fucking care anymore.”

Eskel would’ve known it was a lie, that the knot of fear and shame under Lambert’s sternum never really loosened. But the bard simply pressed his fingers to the frets and began plucking an accompaniment, his voice rising in a clear and aching melody.

_“What good is a syllable?_

_I wish this unease was killable_

_Nothing I say_

_Can change the way_

_The hole remains unfillable…_

_But a bottle of potion_

_And all that is hunting you down_

_Recedes to the sound_

_Of a dull roar_

_But you are up off the floor_

_Not so unsteady_

_Ready?_

_Swallow the first one._

_We're only as sick as our secrets_

_But maybe our secrets are all that we own_

_You can drain cups with a friend_

_But in the end_

_You will be out there alone…”_

Lambert couldn’t breathe. He felt like the bard had turned him inside out and held a candleflame to all his darkest corners. A stinging sensation filled his throat and the space behind his nose, but the tear ducts of witcher eyes were purely utilitarian—he was incapable of crying. Instead, he choked on air, dry-sobbing with the back of his wrist pressed against his mouth as if he could physically hold it in somehow.

The music had stopped, and there were arms around him now, drawing him in. Lambert pressed his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck, the bard murmuring— _I’m so sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to…_ —though the words didn’t quite penetrate. Jaskier _saw_ him; he’d never felt seen like that, not even with Geralt and Eskel who’d known him for three quarters of a century. He clutched at the bard, wanting to burrow closer into the safety of his embrace, his whole body shaking.

And just like that, Lambert fell apart. But it was all right, because Jaskier was there to catch the pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics heavily modified from Peter Mulvey’s “Words Too Small to Say”
> 
> There will be even more comfort for our prickly witcher next chapter! I've got other deadlines, though, so it might be more than week before I can update again.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and we're back! Thanks for your patience with the month-long hiatus. Hopefully y'all are still interested in reading this!

Jaskier held Lambert until he quieted. The witcher gradually turned sullen and withdrawn, and while Jaskier desperately wanted to know what he was thinking, he didn’t dare press him.

Instead, he refilled the bowl with more quail stew and tried not to hover as Lambert sipped cautiously at it. Not hovering was a test of his willpower. Jaskier suspected Lambert was about as emaciated as a witcher body could get, his altered physiology clinging jealously to muscle mass in a way no human’s could manage. All the energy stores had been consumed, though, and he could see tendons shifting just below the skin whenever Lambert moved, even if it was only to lifted the bowl in his hands. How long could a witcher last like this, before organ failure set in? Melitele preserve him, but Jaskier itched to stuff food in Lambert’s mouth with his own fingers.

When Lambert broke the silence, his voice came out rough. “Jaskier.”

He startled a bit, realizing he’d been staring. “Um, yes?”

“I left you tied to the bed.” Lambert addressed the statement to his soup bowl, as if he couldn’t bear to see how Jaskier would react.

“You did,” Jaskier agreed. “It was bad form, and something we will definitely have to discuss, but not today. Right now, I need you to get well much more than I need to talk about that.”

“You should find something else to waste your time on. I’m an asshole.”

“Yes, but I’d really like you to be _my_ asshole.” The words slipped out before Jaskier could think better of saying them aloud. He felt himself flush scarlet; he hadn’t meant to go spilling his own feelings all over this already messy situation. “I… I mean, um…”

Lambert made a low, frustrated noise in his throat. “Buttercup, get over here.”

Jaskier was aware that most Doms would’ve been rankled by that, but as a switch he felt no cognitive dissonance at the thought of being ordered around by a sub. He just scooted over to sit beside Lambert, who set aside his now-empty bowl and turned to face him. The witcher’s yellow gaze rested on him like a weight, pupils almost round in the shadow of the cave mouth. Then Lambert grabbed the front of his doublet, pulled him closer, and kissed him—hot and filthy and aggressive, not at all in a _thanks, friend, for treating my wound_ sort of way. Jaskier was more than happy to part his lips and allow Lambert to absolutely plunder some Redanian territory with his tongue. He only pulled away when his human need for oxygen became a pressing requirement.

“Fuck, Jask, I think I’m already yours,” Lambert breathed, almost too low to hear.

Jaskier felt dizzy with a swell of possessive affection. No one had ever wanted to be his. The Countess de Stael had been his longest romantic relationship, and she had kept him like an amusing pet and lent him out to her friends. He’d told himself he enjoyed their arrangement, enjoyed all the attention even if some of it was less than respectful—until the Countess grew bored and tossed his aside to find a new favorite toy. But this connection with Lambert didn’t feel at all like that.

“I’m going to wash you now,” Jaskier declared.

Lambert blinked. “What.”

“You heard me. Come on, let’s get you on your feet.”

Lambert definitely was still limping, but he could put weight on the leg more or less reliably, and he didn’t growl once about Jaskier ducking under his arm to steady him. They went slow, navigating their way down the hillside to the creek nearby. When they reached the bank, Jaskier helped Lambert work his trousers off over the bandage and climb in.

The creek was awkwardly shallow for a bath, but at least that made it easy to prop his bandaged leg out of the water where the wound and the dressings could stay dry. Jaskier passed Lambert the soap with instructions to wash his face while he shucked his own clothes and stepped in to kneel behind him. He reclaimed the soap and worked up a lather in Lambert’s hair, rinsing it with water cupped in his hands. Then he worked his way down Lambert’s body: neck and shoulders, left arm, right arm, back. Lambert’s muscles loosened and he drifted under his touch, and the further he relaxed into subspace, the more Jaskier’s own body hummed with satisfaction.

The witcher’s head was resting back against his shoulder, and Jaskier stroked his scruffy cheek to gently rouse him. “Don’t fall asleep, darling. You need to take the soap again and wash your privates.”

Lambert lifted an uncoordinated arm, but then let it flop back into the water. “No, ’s too hard,” he grumbled. “You do it.”

Jaskier pressed his lips together, trying not to smile. His sub was a _brat_.

As it turned out, trying to wash under someone else’s foreskin without giving them a boner was a futile endeavor. Jaskier’s mouth went dry, Lambert’s hardening cock hot and heavy in his palm. “I don’t know that this is a good idea…”

“Touch me,” Lambert whined.

He was so fucking gorgeous and in so much pain, and Jaskier wanted nothing more than to make him feel good, instead. “Okay.”

.o.O.o.

Lambert’s skin was already buzzing pleasantly from Jaskier’s touch, so when the bard’s hand wrapped around his hard prick and stroked, Lambert moaned like a cheap whore, and he couldn’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed about it. He was floating on a euphoric sea of sensation, aroused but not urgently so—he wanted Jaskier to keep touching him _forever_ more than he wanted to get off.

Without warning, Jaskier made a surprised _oof_ noise and pulled away, the warm weight of his chest that had been holding up Lambert’s back just vanishing. Lambert flailed at the sudden absence of bard and went under briefly before he managed to prop himself up. (And what a humiliating death that would have been, drowning in six inches of water.)

He looked behind him, confused. It was Eskel; Eskel had Jaskier pinned to the ground. Lambert could only watch in horror as Eskel punched the bard right below the sternum, making his diaphragm seize. Jaskier let out a pained wheeze as the air abandoned his lungs, and he immediately curled his knees up to protect his middle and threw his arms over his head in a way that suggested this was not his first time getting the shit kicked out of him.

“You little whoreson!” Eskel growled, another punch landing. “I trust you with him, and the minute I turn my back you’re taking advantage!”

“No,” Lambert choked out, panic lacing through him like fire. He would lose him now, he would lose Jaskier because no one in their right mind would stick around after getting gut-punched by a witcher for their troubles.

Lambert tried to stand, but his leg went out from under him, so he scrambled undignified on hands and knees to grab at Eskel, try to pull him off. His limbs were still loose and weak from subspace, and it was like trying to move a boulder.

“Please,” he croaked. He wanted to cover Jaskier with his own body, but there was a mountain of angry witcher in the way, so he clung to Eskel instead, a physical plea. He pressed his face into the back of Eskel’s armor and spoke in a voice too small for human ears. “Don’t, Es. I need him.”

“What!” Eskel pulled away from the bard, sitting back on his heels so he could turn to look his brother. “Lambert, you can’t be serious, he was—”

Right then, Lambert didn’t give two shits what Eskel thought Jaskier had been doing. He scrambled forward, helping the bard sit up. “Jask? Are you okay?”

Jaskier coughed and wheezed, struggling to draw air. He flashed what was probably supposed to be a reassuring smile, but there was still pain etched around his eyes. Lambert wanted the earth to open up and swallow him. How had he managed to make something as simple as a fucking _bath_ turn to shit? The ability to fuck up literally anything was his special talent.

“Hey,” the bard rasped out, reaching for Lambert. “It’s all right, I’m fine.”

Lambert leaned into Jaskier’s touch and swore against his neck, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Everything felt sharp and awful and ruined—like it had the night he left Jaskier, but with a lovely added burn of guilt. If Lambert hadn’t been such a needy brat, Eskel wouldn’t have caught them in a compromising position. Hell, if Lambert weren’t so damaged, Eskel wouldn’t have _cared_ about what he saw. And now Jaskier had been hurt and _Lambert_ was somehow the one asking for comfort, because apparently on top of everything else he was also a selfish prick.

“Shh, shh.” Jaskier threw a leg over Lambert’s lap so he could pull him close, wrap him up in limbs as if the bard were a comforting octopus. “You did nothing wrong, darling. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

They were both still naked from bathing in the creek, but Lambert couldn’t have felt farther from aroused. Maybe he should just never get off again—thinking with his dick always got him in trouble. He wanted to crawl out of his skin; he wanted to hurt himself until the pain in his body drowned out the mental anguish. He kicked the heel of his injured leg against the ground, making pain spike all the way up to his hip, but Jaskier tsked and rested a hand atop his thigh, a gentle yet firm command not to do that again.

Through the cloud of his misery, Lambert was vaguely aware of Jaskier glaring at Eskel over his shoulder. “Well done, I hope you’re proud of yourself—he was fine before and now he’s subdropping hard.”

“I…” Eskel sounded lost.

“Oh, just get over here and do something about it.”

And then there was another set of hands on him, Eskel’s strong fingers digging into his shoulders. He felt Eskel’s face press against his wet hair. “I’m sorry, little wolf. It’s not your fault, I overreacted.”

“Fuck off,” Lambert sobbed, but he was secretly relieved when Eskel understood he didn’t mean it literally and stayed.

Sandwiched safely between Jaskier and Eskel, it was impossible for the tension not to bleed slowly out of him. He squirmed a little, part of him wanting to cling to the awfulness—it was nothing more than he deserved.

He pushed on Jaskier, gaining a little distance, and took deep, even breaths to get ahold of himself. “I’m sure this is real attractive,” he said bitterly. “I swear I’m not usually such a weak little bitch.”

Jaskier gave him an absolutely gutted look, as if the deprecation had been aimed at him instead of Lambert himself. “Darling, subdrop has nothing to do with strength or weakness. Eskel, for example, is riding out a fair bit of domdrop right now.”

Lambert blinked, astonished. “What?” It wasn’t that he didn’t know that Doms could drop, it was just… surely that didn’t happen to _witcher_ Doms. Eskel and Geralt were the models of what a true witcher should embody—they weren’t waste-of-space fuck-ups like Lambert.

Eskel made a high, whining noise of discomfort in his throat and pressed closer against Lambert’s back, burying his face against his neck. “Never meant to hurt you, brother,” he mumbled.

Lambert was stunned. Eskel _never_ sounded vulnerable. Even when that Black Sun cunt ravaged his face, Eskel remained stoic throughout his recovery. Surely upsetting an oversensitive sub like Lambert wasn’t worse than having your face split open by your own Child Surprise. Lambert couldn’t wrap his brain around Eskel’s reaction.

Fuck, Lambert wasn’t worth this fuss. He didn’t understand why Eskel and Jaskier were even bothering.

They all went back to the cave for the remainder of the afternoon. With the ruckus at the creek, Lambert’s dressings had gotten soaked, so he sat—stiff and ornery—while Jaskier cleaned and wrapped the wound again. Eskel lent him a shirt, and Jaskier tried to inquire about the location of Lambert’s boots, but he clammed up and just growled in response. There was no way in hell he was going to admit he didn’t know where he’d lost his boots, because he’d been so high on White Gull at the time that he barely remembered taking them off. He still had his swords—because a witcher missing a silver sword was almost as bad as a witcher missing a limb—but the rest of his possessions were unaccounted for.

Eskel started dinner prep duty, and Jaskier went back to playing his lute, and Lambert did his level best to snarl and snap and drive them away. They both proved to be annoyingly impervious to his sour mood. Nauseous guilt swirled in the pit of Lambert’s stomach—he wasn’t worthy of this, having people like Eskel and Jaskier taking care of him, but acting like a total dick to them only seemed to harden their resolve. It was maddening.

.o.O.o.

On the rocky road toward bardic acclaim, Jaskier had been jeered off stage, had food thrown at him, and been rudely ignored more times than he’d care to admit. He was the very definition of grace under fire, but gods help him—if Lambert called him “Geralt’s reject barker” one more time…

It was obvious that Lambert was weaponizing his natural talent for being a prick in a transparent attempt to piss off Jaskier and Eskel enough that they would abandon him. Maybe Jaskier should have learned to cut his losses before someone came out with a real gem like _if life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands,_ but he didn’t actually believe that Lambert wanted to be left alone. So he gritted his teeth and smiled through the barbs, and in his mind he replayed how just hours ago Lambert had said _I’m already yours_.

Jaskier knew he was persistent to a fault, but his intuition told him that now was not the time to reconsider one of his core traits.

Eskel responded to Lambert with an odd sort of politeness that became more cool and distant and impeccable the more Lambert tried to jab at him. “Maybe,” Eskel proposed, “you should rethink this strategy where you attempt to self-sabotage all your relationships.”

“What do _you_ know about relationships?” Lambert sneered. “Fucked any good succubi lately? Because we both know human women won’t touch you with a ten-foot pole, not with an ugly mug like that.”

Jaskier sucked in a shocked breath—surely Eskel’s scarred face was off-limits for trash talking. Lambert hesitated, his eyes widening a little and his resolved weakening as if it were a surprise even to him that such words had fallen off his tongue.

But Eskel calmly replied, “Did it ever occur to you that might be a reason why I’m unwilling to write you off and walk away from one of the few people I do have?”

Strangely, this seemed to throw fuel on Lambert’s flagging fire. “Oh fuck you, I’m not _yours_ , you don’t _have_ anything about me. We’re just stuck with each other cuz all the other Wolves fuckin’ _died_ , so let’s not pretend—”

Eskel shaped an unfamiliar sign with his hand, and Lambert fell asleep mid-sentence, collapsing back onto the bedroll in an unceremonious heap of snoring witcher.

Jaskier stared, stunned. “What the fuck did you just do?”

“Somne,” Eskel replied, as if it were no big deal. “He needs rest, whether he likes to admit it or not.”

Given that Lambert had made a whole speech about how seriously he took consent in a sexual setting, it made Jaskier more than a little uncomfortable to see Eskel casually use a sign on him without his permission. But it also wasn’t his place to meddle in Lambert’s relationship with his brother. They had known each other for the better part of a century—if Lambert felt that his autonomy was being disrespected, surely they would have talked it out by now.

But some part of his discomfort must have registered on his face, because Eskel raised his eyebrows at him. “What, you disapprove?”

Jaskier attempted to shrug it off, but letting things go wasn’t really in his repertoire. “I can’t imagine someone who’s so skittish about being Dommed would be particularly thrilled about surprise sign usage.”

Eskel sighed. “Lambert… doesn’t see himself clearly,” he said, picking his words with care. “You try to tell him he did good, the praise just rolls off his back like water off a duck. But if he thinks he messed up, or just fell short, he clings to that hurt like it’s something precious he wants to store away forever.”

Jaskier huffed. “What does that have to do with the somne?”

“If I didn’t knock him out, he’d stay awake all night with the memory of what happened at the creek, just fuckin’ milking it for misery. I could _smell_ him spiraling. What did you think the extra dose of asshole was about?”

Jaskier chewed on his lip, mulling over Eskel’s reasoning. He reminded himself, yet again, that Eskel had known Lambert for seventy years while Jaskier hadn’t even known him for seventy _days_. “He was pretty vehement about not being yours. So if it wasn’t a jealousy thing… are you going to explain why giving him a handjob is a punchable offense?”

Eskel heaved another sigh. “That story isn’t mine to tell. And I’m not sure I’d recommend asking Lambert about it, either.”

Curiouser and curiouser. As it turned out, Geralt wasn’t the only witcher who was a veritable minefield of traumas and insecurities, and Lambert had more than a wounded leg in need of healing.

.o.O.o.

In the morning, they packed up the campsite, preparing to move out. Lambert was pissed that Eskel had somne’d him, and he’d never admit it but the truth was, he felt better after a solid night of sleep. Everything seemed less hopelessly dire than it had the night before. Not that he planned to go out of his way to be nice or anything.

Lambert would be riding with his injured leg resting on top of the knee pad instead of against the side flap of the saddle, with Jaskier seated behind him, and it was mortifying that he needed a boost from Eskel just to get into position. Jaskier mounted behind him, a bit awkwardly but then the saddle wasn’t exactly designed for two.

“I could hold the reins,” Lambert grumbled as Jaskier wrapped his arms around him and claimed them for himself. “There’s nothing wrong with my hands.”

“Yes, but now I have the stirrups _and_ the reins. I’m mad with power,” the bard joked dryly. “Anyway, I recall _someone_ explaining to me that reins are for pussies.”

“This is humiliating. I don’t need help staying on my own damn horse.”

Lambert _was_ uncomfortable, though the embarrassment was only a part of why. He was now effectively sitting between Jaskier’s spread thighs, his ass not quite pressing up against the bard’s crotch. While he may have been pondering an oath of celibacy yesterday, it wouldn’t last long in this position. It was already hard not to think about other, more enjoyable reasons why Jaskier might rub against his backside, and riding up close to the pommel with a semi was not going to be pleasant.

Jaskier gave a haughty sniff. “Tough luck. Griffin and I bonded in your absence, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if his loyalties have shifted.”

They all set out, Eskel taking the lead until they hit a road and oriented themselves, at which time he reined Scorpion back and let Jaskier guide the way. That was odd, to say the least—yesterday Eskel’s throwing punches, and today he’s following Jaskier? Lambert got the nagging, prickly sense that Eskel and Jaskier were conspiring against him.

“So,” Lambert drawled, “where exactly is this that you’re taking me?”

“Oh, just a rural viscounty along the coast. Not too many people, and I’m known there—we can rely on their discretion.”

“Yeah?” Lambert twisted in the saddle, squinting over his shoulder at him. Jaskier was fiddling with the reins, avoiding eye contact, and acting generally cagey. But he couldn’t tell what the bard was hiding. “What’s the place called?”

Jaskier cleared his throat. “Lettenhove.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon: when Jaskier says, “let’s go to the coast, get away for a while,” he’s low-key trying to bring Geralt home to meet his family.
> 
> This chapter is kinda all over the place -- I can't tell if it's really coherent or not. It's hard getting back into a rhythm after a break! But next up: Lettenhove.


	10. Chapter 10

Jaskier guided them along a livestock path through the pastures in the northeast corner of the viscounty rather than taking the road through the east hamlet, but they still ran into a crofter rounding up a herd of dairy goats. He’d hoped to slip through unnoticed, but no such luck.

The old man broke into a wide smile when he spotted them. “Master Julian!”

Jaskier ignored the way the witchers stiffened at the unfamiliar name. “Jakub! How’s the croft doing? How’s Marta?”

“Both are well, thank you.”

Jakub eyed his companions. They had swapped the riding arrangements after a break around midday, so Jaskier was alone on Griffin, Lambert was riding Scorpion, and Eskel was on foot, hovering close to his horse’s side in case Lambert unbalanced.

“We’re headed to the beach house. I don’t suppose you could send one of the children from the village down to the manor to announce our arrival?”

“Of course, of course. Running errands keeps the grandkids out of trouble, you know.” Jakub winked. “And who should be announced with you?”

“Julian ‘and guests’ will do for now. We’re hoping not to cause too much of a fuss.”

One of the goats walked right up to Eskel and headbutted him in the crotch, which made Lambert laugh his ass off while Eskel groped for the shreds of his dignity.

“Look at that,” Jakub chortled, “someone’s made a new friend!”

“I already have enough friends who hit me in soft places,” Eskel said to the goat, who just gazed up at him expectantly. He gave in and patted her on the head.

Lambert wiped at his eyes as if they’d teared up from laughing so hard. “Oh man, the sight of you trying not to double over after a fuckin’ _goat_ hits you in the balls is a memory I’m going to treasure for years to come. Makes it all worth it.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hilarious. Now shoo,” he added to the goat as he grabbed Scorpion’s bridle and started them walking again, whether Lambert liked it or not.

A minute down the path, with Jakub and the herd obscured behind the gentle roll of a hill, Lambert shifted back to ornery. “Why did that crofter call you _Master Julian_?”

“Because Jaskier is a stage name I chose for myself,” he hedged.

Lambert eyed him suspiciously. “And the _master_ part?”

Jaskier heaved a sigh; there would be no hiding it soon enough, might as well fess up now. “If you want to get technical about it, my real name is Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.”

“Viscount? _You_ are landed nobility?” Lambert scoffed.

“Only in name—my sister Kasia runs the estate and oversees the viscounty. Also, your incredulity wounds me. Am I not the very picture of refinement and courtly manners?”

Jaskier was not actually as affronted as he pretended to be. In truth, he’d worked hard to be able to blend in with common folk. His first year at Oxenfurt, the other music students had teased him mercilessly for his table manners— _dining with the queen again, Jaskier?_ —and he’d studied how to fit in with the tradesman class using the same intensity he’d focused upon Introductory Rhetoric or Elven Classical Poetry. It was a compliment to his skills that no one pegged him for a noble anymore.

It took the rest of the afternoon to cross through the viscounty to the coast. Eskel had turned Geralt-level quiet, and Lambert was increasingly surly and unwilling to admit that pain and exhaustion were making him cranky. With his companions trying his patience, Jaskier heaved a sigh of relief when they finally reached the switchbacks that led down the cliffs to the wide strip of sandy beach below.

They had a lovely, broad cove all to themselves, the bedrock jutting out into the water on either side. The only manmade structure in sight was a beach house, the rear built up on the rocks, the front raised above the sand on stilts. There was room enough beneath to stable the horses, some cleverly spaced boards dividing it into stalls; the tide wouldn’t come up that high unless there was a storm surge, so Scorpion and Griffin should be comfortable.

By unspoken agreement, Jaskier and Eskel left the horses still tacked and ungroomed in favor of cajoling Lambert up the exterior stairs into the house. “I can fucking do it myself,” Lambert growled when they tried to help him, even though his leg had obviously gotten stiff during the day’s ride.

Up another flight of stairs inside, Jaskier managed to install him in one of the bedrooms. Predictably, Lambert snapped at them about being put to bed “like a fucking toddler” before it was even dark out, but his grumbling was somewhat mollified by lying down. With a twinge, Jaskier realized this might very well be the finest mattress Lambert had even lain upon in his life. He couldn’t decide whether he felt embarrassed for having access to such wealth, or proud to be able to provide this level of comfort to someone he cared for. Perhaps both at once.

After they had Lambert settled, Jaskier checked the kitchen. There was firewood split and stacked beside the stove, and a stash of jars in the pantry, but no fresh foods to speak of. Not terribly surprising. Eskel had followed him warily, leaning against the kitchen doorframe as if he wasn’t certain he’d be welcome all the way inside.

Jaskier rummaged around on the top shelf of the pantry and pulled down a woven basket used for trips to market. “I’ll have to ride up to the fishing village for provisions—if we want to eat something other than pickled herring and sauerkraut tonight, that is.”

“It’s fine,” Eskel said too quickly.

Jaskier paused, giving the witcher a look. Eskel refused to make eye contact, and he shifted his weight on his feet with a palpable air of guilt. He wondered what this was really about—he doubted it was the meal situation—but he would stay on-topic until Eskel was ready.

“While any food is an improvement over Lambert starving himself to death in a cave, this isn’t the dead of winter, so we might as well eat something that didn’t come out of a jar of brine.”

“ _Jaskier._ ” Eskel looked pained. “You brought us to your _childhood home_.”

He raised his eyebrows, confused at the gravity with which those words were delivered. “Technically, I brought you to my childhood vacation house.”

“I _punched you_ , and you still brought my brother home and tucked him in to your expensive bed linens to recuperate.” Eskel raked in a breath of air as if _he_ were the one with a sore diaphragm. “And now you want to ride into town after a whole day of traveling because the food you have isn’t fresh enough for him?”

“Well, calling it a _town_ is a generous overestimation, but otherwise, yes. That’s an accurate summary.”

Eskel rubbed his hand over the scarred side of his face. “Gods, I’m so sorry, Jaskier.”

Jaskier pressed his lips together. Apologizing didn’t really help, because what he needed more than an apology was to understand what the hell was going on with Lambert. But Eskel had already made it clear that he could explain nothing on Lambert’s behalf, so Jaskier swallowed his frustration and forced himself to graciously accept. “I appreciate that, and I know you were only trying to protect your brother. Water under the bridge, my dear witcher. Now, I’d best be off if I’m to make it back before full dark.”

Jaskier returned an hour later with a two-foot codfish gutted, chopped in half, and stuffed in his market basket beside a bundle of kohlrabi, as well as some eggs and new potatoes intended for breakfast. The sun had already slipped below the horizon, and he dismounted to lead Griffin down the trail on foot in the quickly dimming twilight.

When he unloaded the groceries in the kitchen, Eskel took over, which was honestly for the best—cooking was not one of Jaskier’s strengths. Opening a bottle of wine from the pantry, however, _that_ he could manage.

.o.O.o.

Lambert woke up to Eskel’s hand on his shoulder and the smell of fresh grilled fish. He’d been sleeping so deeply that for a moment he was disoriented by the unfamiliar, candlelit bedroom and the fucking heavenly mattress that was clearly stuffed with something more expensive than straw.

He sat up, scowling. As the memory returned of where he was, he couldn’t decide whether this comfort felt like a betrayal. It’s not as if Jaskier lied. He simply failed to mention that he was frickin’ _rolling_ in money, that he _just technically_ inherited a viscounty that must thousands of acres large, given how long they spent riding across. It was weird that Jaskier was nobility pretending to have to sing for his supper, wasn’t it?

Eskel handed him the plate he was carrying, and the smell made his mouth water. Lambert’s ruminations must have looked like surliness, though, because Eskel said, “You gonna eat of your own volition, or do I have to force you to do that, too?”

The words came out mild, but Lambert could tell his brother was hiding some leftover anger. Lambert dutifully stuffed his face, thinking while he chewed. He jerked his head, indicating Eskel should sit beside him, which his brother did—not _that_ angry, then. Lambert swallowed and paused.

“Eskel…” he began hesitantly. “I’m a complete asshole.”

Eskel harrumphed. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Guilt swelled in Lambert’s chest, and he poked at a fishbone with his fork. “Even Geralt gets turned away at brothels sometimes, and he’s always been the pretty one.”

“I know you didn’t mean it, brother.” Eskel patted Lambert’s knee, as if to dismiss the topic.

“It’s not about your face,” he persisted. “Humans are just scared of us in general.”

Eskel trailed his fingertips over the right side of his mouth where the scars pulled a little at his lips, giving the impression of a perpetual snarl. Resigned, he said, “I can tell where people are looking, Lambert. It’s all anyone sees.” He paused, and then his mouth twitched into a small smile. “Well, not Jaskier—he was too busy grabbing my medallion to gawk at my face.”

“Your medallion?”

“To check if I was a Wolf. All he cared about was whether I could help him find you.”

“Oh.” Lambert refocused his attention on his food. He felt warm and embarrassed and sort of _happy_ at the thought of Jaskier’s devotion, and he didn’t know what to do with any of those feelings. He’d done nothing to earn Jaskier’s affection, and it might be taken away at any time—best not get used to this.

Eskel knocked his knee against Lambert’s. “So… does this mean you’re now going to apologize to Jaskier for ditching him and making him chase you halfway across Redania?”

“I did!” he protested.

“Okay. Sure.” Eskel nodded reasonably. “And did you actually use the words ‘I’m sorry’ or did you just imply a certain degree of remorse by pointing out that you, yourself, are a jackass?”

Lambert blinked. “…Fuck.”

.o.O.o.

Jaskier sprawled sideways on a chaise with a glass of Toussaint red and a lovely ocean view out the wide, west-facing windows, the wave caps shimmering with starlight. It was always strange being back in Lettenhove. He’d spent so much of his younger years rallying his sisters and closing ranks against the constant conflict with their father. The old viscount was a decade in the ground, but his ghost still seemed to haunt the place—or perhaps that was just Jaskier’s guilt for the times he’d failed to protect his sisters, too busy studying at Oxenfurt or following Geralt on the Path.

Someone cleared their throat _right_ behind him, and Jaskier nearly spilled his whine in startlement. He craned his neck; it was Lambert, padding silently with his bare feet. “Good gods, I ought to put a collar with a bell on you.”

Lambert’s pupils spasmed wide in that way that witcher eyes could (which Jaskier absolutely did not refer to as _interested kitty_ in the privacy of his own head) and he swallowed visibly. Jaskier made a mental note of that for later—because if Lambert wanted a collar, he was _so_ on board—but for now, the witcher looked like he’d been thrown off-track by the idea.

“What is it, darling?” Jaskier prompted.

Lambert cleared his throat, shuffled his feet, and took a big breath. “I’m sorry for the way I left you in White Bridge,” he said, sounding hilariously rehearsed, like a child who’d been reprimanded and forced to apologize.

Jaskier couldn’t help it, he laughed.

Lambert glowered. “Fuck you, I’m trying!”

“Forgive me, darling, I know you are,” he replied, reining in his mirth. “Come sit with me.”

Shoulders hunched and tense, Lambert perched on the edge of the chaise as if he expected he’d need to make a hasty retreat from the room. “I just want to make it right. Will you fucking tell me what I have to do, already?”

“Ah.” Jaskier set his wine down on a side table as he gathered his thoughts. “I want to preface this by emphasizing that I’m really, truly not attempting to pressure you into revealing something you’re not ready to share with me. But, for me personally, any apology that doesn’t help me to understand _why_ it happened is just hollow words.”

Lambert looked at him like he was short of a marble. “You… _want_ me to make excuses?”

“No, it’s not that, I…” Jaskier huffed in frustration. “I can’t put something behind me if I don’t understand what happened. I’ve always been that way.”

“So the price for your forgiveness is information.”

“I’m not trying to barter with you, I’m _not_. But I know myself, and I don’t let things go easily.” He paused, squeezed his eyes shut. “I may never get over Geralt sending me away for good, because I honestly didn’t see it coming. In the absence of meaningful closure, my brilliant plan was to drink myself into an early grave, because otherwise I would just never stop wondering how I could misread our friendship so catastrophically. Not understanding was killing me.”

“But you got over it.”

“No, I got distracted by someone more important. There’s a difference.”

Lambert gave him a lost look, as if he genuinely didn’t know how to respond to Jaskier casually declaring his importance. It made something tighten in Jaskier’s chest, to think that this sharp-witted, passionate man couldn’t see his own worth. He reached for Lambert’s arm and gently tugged, guiding the witcher closer until he was nestled between Jaskier’s spread knees, leaning back against his chest.

Once Lambert was settled comfortably instead of perching like he was ready to bolt, Jaskier assured him, “You don’t have to tell me anything. My forgiveness I can offer freely—I just won’t forget, is all.”

Lambert nodded, and they sat together in silence for a while. One of Lambert’s hands found its way to Jaskier’s ankle, and he ran his fingertips back and forth through the thatch of leg hair, as if there was something soothing about the texture and repetition. Jaskier assumed the talk was over and Lambert was drifting, until he spoke again out of the blue.

“I was fourteen when I presented—still in training,” Lambert said, “and there was this witcher from Geralt and Eskel’s cohort who just… wouldn’t fucking leave me alone. Geralt told him off—beat the shit out of him, actually—but as soon as the asshole thought he could get away with it, he did it again.”

Jaskier couldn’t breathe. He had a feeling what “it” meant, and the thought gave him a physical pain in his chest.

“So,” Lambert continued. “When Geralt smelled what happened… he was, shall we say, _most_ displeased. He drew steel and dealt with the problem. Permanently.”

Jaskier bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. He was _furious_ , but his anger at a crime committed decades ago by a dead man wouldn’t do anything to help Lambert here and now. So he swallowed down his possessive rage and hugged his arms around his witcher a little tighter. “What do you need from me?” he asked. “No Dom voice, you’ve mentioned that.”

Lambert made a small, reluctant noise in his throat, almost a whine, and then confessed, “I like your Dom voice.”

A warm thrill went through Jaskier. “Right, good, yes,” he stammered before collecting his wits. “How about this: no Dom voice unless it’s an emergency, _or_ we’ve discussed and agreed upon its use ahead of time. I don’t ever want to take away your right to choose.”

A ragged breath hitched in Lambert’s lungs, but he didn’t seem to tense. If anything, he melted a bit further into Jaskier’s embrace. After a minute, he mumbled, “I can’t promise I’m not gonna freak out on you again.”

“Oh darling, I require no such guarantee.” Jaskier paused and then added with a hint of mirth, “Although if _Eskel_ could avoid pummeling me in future, that would be preferable.”

“I swear Eskel isn’t usually the punch first, ask questions later kinda guy.”

“Right. That’s what your brothers have _you_ for, after all,” Jaskier teased.

“Fuck off,” Lambert said without heat, a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

Perhaps half an hour later, Eskel finally came downstairs to investigate where they were. Lambert was still sprawled against Jaskier on the chaise, drifting somewhere between subspace and sleep, and Jaskier suspected he was going to end up serving as witcher furniture all night. He should have thought ahead and moved the cuddling to a bed before Lambert turned into an immovable dead weight pinning him down.

Jaskier tilted his head back at the sound of Eskel’s soft footsteps and jokingly mouthed, _Help, save me._

Eskel just flashed a wry grin and circled around to the front of the chaise. He picked up Lambert’s feet from the seat cushion and slid under them, settling down with his arm brushing Jaskier’s folded knee and Lambert’s legs sprawled across his lap. Lambert roused only a little, squirming as if he were trying to burrow closer to them both.

Eskel rubbed a soothing hand over Lambert’s uninjured calf, gazing down at his brother with such naked fondness. Jaskier tried to imagine the three witchers together like this, with Geralt wearing that same look of slightly exasperated familial affection, but he found the image impossible to conjure. He felt a little sad, a little _cheated_ , that he’d never gotten to know these men as Geralt’s kinfolk, and instead had to meet them through unfortunate circumstance.

But then Eskel looked up from watching an exceedingly comfortable Lambert and caught Jaskier’s eye, and the older witcher mouthed, _Thank you_. Perhaps the events of his life unfolded exactly the way they were meant to.

Jaskier would have to ride down to the manor in the morning to greet his sister and her family, but for this moment, it felt like the three of them were the only people in the world. And this was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder: if you want more detail about what happened when Lambert was fourteen, there's a companion piece,   
> [Let You Down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24596038/chapters/59412175), that goes into his backstory. (But content warning for sexual violence against a minor.)


	11. Chapter 11

In the morning, Jaskier checked Lambert’s leg, and there was finally— _finally_ —no discoloration in the drainage. The cockatrice toxin was out of his system, and the wound was ready to heal properly. He stitched up the gash to help the edges close faster, though that marvelous witcher healing should be kicking in any day now.

They were in Lambert’s bedroom, everyone having retired upstairs at some point in the wee hours of the morning. Jaskier perched on the edge of the bed to wrap a fresh dressing over the stitches, just to keep the wound clean. “…And there, you’re all set. Now let’s see if you can go a full month without accruing another mortal wound, shall we?”

Lambert was watching him through half-lidded eyes. “Mm. Take such good care of me,” he said with a hint of growl.

Jaskier cleared his throat, suddenly feeling hot despite having shucked his doublet and rolled his shirtsleeves before tending the wound. “Yes, well, someone ought to.”

In a flash, Lambert lunged for him, and Jaskier let out an undignified squawk of surprise as he was dragged to lie on top of the witcher. Lambert brushed parted lips against Jaskier’s mouth in a tempting almost-kiss. “Maybe I should take care of you.”

“I have no coherent arguments against that,” Jaskier admitted.

Even half-starved, Lambert was hard muscle everywhere, and when he ran his palms down Jaskier’s flanks, it stirred a shiver of desire. Jaskier pressed closer, trying to steal a kiss, but Lambert teasingly ducked away and snuffled up his neck to behind his ear, scenting him like his school’s namesake would. He nipped at the corner of Jaskier’s jaw, and then flipped them both over on the bed, pinning Jaskier beneath him.

A breathy moan escaped Jaskier’s lips, but Lambert pulled back a little, hesitating. “Is this… okay?”

“Lambert, I’m a switch—I promise I’m _really_ not going to be turned off by you feeling a little aggressive.” To emphasize his point, Jaskier canted his hips up so Lambert could feel the hard line of his erection trapped in his trousers.

Lambert’s pupils went all _interested kitty_ , and he growled and rutted against Jaskier, grinding their hard cocks together through the layers of fabric. Oh gods, Jaskier must have done something very good in a past life to deserve this—a perfect bratty sub who also wanted to hold him down and claim him sometimes. Switches were so rare that he’d never dreamed of finding a single person who could feed both sides of him, and not as a chore or a favor, but because Lambert wanted it, too.

Eskel called up the stairs, “Stop humping the bard and come eat breakfast while it’s hot!”

Jaskier felt his face go beet red. He whispered, “Oh gods, I forgot he could hear everything.”

The corner of Lambert’s mouth quirked up in a lascivious smirk. He rose up on his knees, but instead of vacating the bed, he bent down and pressed his nose to Jaskier’s arousal, inhaling deeply. “As soon as we open the door, he’ll be able to _smell_ everything, too.”

Raising his voice only a little, Jaskier said, “Eskel, these blue balls are officially your fault.”

“Sorry!” the other witcher called from downstairs.

Well, at least breakfast would be delicious, if Eskel’s previously demonstrated cooking prowess was a reliable indicator. So long as Jaskier got his dick to calm down enough that he could eat.

.o.O.o.

As they sat around the dining table, Lambert wrestled with whether or not he should be waiting for the other shoe to drop. This thing he had with Jaskier was… _good_ , but if he got too comfortable, then he’d just be blindsided when it all inevitably went to shit. He knew what Eskel would say, because he’d said it back when Lambert and Aiden were still dancing around each other: _don’t be so preoccupied with the end that you fuck up ever getting to have a beginning._

Of course then he’d had Aiden in his life just long enough for the Cat to become absolutely essential before Jad Karadin murdered him. So. Shows what Eskel knows.

“I’ll pick up some food today,” Jaskier was saying, “and I should be able to arrange for regular deliveries, while I’m down at the manor. Would you care to join me?”

Lambert suddenly felt as if he should’ve been paying more attention to Jaskier’s prattling. “What?”

The bard’s smile looked slightly nervous. “Would you like to, eh, accompany me to the Lettenhove manor house? I ought to say hello to my sister in person, you see, and I thought…” he trailed off and left the sentence unfinished.

Lambert got that awful whooshing sensation in his stomach, like he’d lost his footing and went tumbling down a mountainside, and he put his fork down, suddenly unable to finish. Here it was, the inevitable gut punch: Jaskier was too polite not to extend an invitation, but he couldn’t really mean to introduce Lambert to his family. Even on a good day, Lambert wasn’t exactly take-home-to-meet-the-parents material, and he was most certainly not at his best now.

How exactly was Jaskier supposed to explain Lambert’s current condition? _This is my boyfriend Lambert, he lost his boots because he was so scared after the first time we hooked up that he ran off and got high on potion base for two weeks straight._ Yeah, that’d be a great fucking first impression. Nevermind that witchers were basically vagrants who lived contract-to-contract, and even before that Lambert had been born dirt poor—there was no way he could fit in with the hoity-toity lifestyle Jaskier must be accustomed to. Lambert could never hope to impress Jaskier’s sister the Viscountess; she’d take one look at him and realize he wasn’t good enough for her brother.

Out of all of this, what Lambert managed to grumble was, “I don’t have shoes.”

Jaskier’s expression softened, but Lambert looked away because if he saw pity in that face, he might actually scream. “Next time then, darling,” the bard said. “Get some rest, and if you’re feeling up for it tomorrow, we can take a trip to the cobbler in town.”

Lambert didn’t bother pointing out that he also didn’t have the coin to buy new boots. Just one more way he’d end up hopelessly indebted to the bard. Jaskier pressed a tentative kiss to Lambert’s temple and then skipped down the outside stairs to saddle the horse, while Lambert glared at the remains of his breakfast, wishing he had something satisfying to stab.

Eskel looked him over impassively, reading into Lambert’s sullen mood-swing with too much accuracy, the bastard. “There’s a mirror in the washroom. Why don’t you take care of that hill tribesman facial hair situation you got going on.”

“You’re the fucking hill person,” Lambert grumbled, which was technically true if one were to consider birth lineage, but Lambert was admittedly the one with a month’s worth of untended beard growth. He sharpened a dagger and closed himself in the washroom, tucked behind the kitchen in the back of the house. He didn’t shave, because a clean shave still made Lambert look like he was fucking fourteen again, but trimming away the excess hair and leaving just his usual dusting of scruff _did_ give him a modicum of presentability. (And fuck you, Eskel, for knowing it would. Smug whoreson.)

Not that there was much point in making an effort. He could trim his beard and buy new boots—hells, he could wrap himself in a fancy silk doublet—but Jaskier’s people would still know he was scum as soon as he opened his stupid fucking mouth.

Lambert stared at the razor-sharp dagger edge for a little too long after he was finished with the beard trim. He could so easily vent the pain out onto his skin where it would be tolerable. A nick on his face or even his hands could be interpreted as an accidental slip-up. But no, if Eskel asked about it, he’d be fucked—Lambert had never bothered learning how to lie well, since it was prohibitively difficult to slip a falsehood past the another witcher’s acute senses. So he sighed, sheathed the dagger, and left the pain sitting inside him, spoiling like bad meat.

When he emerged from the washroom, Eskel lent him a spare pair of trousers to go with the shirt. Lambert had to cinch his belt tight, since they were a little too big around his slim hips, but it was still an improvement over his old pair, which were basically blood-stained rags from the knee down on the side where his injury was. He knew he should’ve been appreciative that his brother was trying to help him feel normal again, but his resentment was so bitter he could practically taste it between his teeth, like chewing on hops. No amount of primping would ever make him an acceptable match for Jaskier.

Lambert ignored Eskel’s attempts to gently pry at the cause of his foul mood, grumbling a simplified explanation of “Hurts,” which wasn’t inaccurate (even if it did lend itself to misinterpretation). He faceplanted on the chaise where they’d spent most of the night, the almond and sandalwood scent of Jaskier’s perfumed soap still clinging faintly to the fabric. It smelled like comfort and safety, and it made Lambert wish he could weep, because soon it would be gone.

That’s where he was when his ears twitched at the sound of hoofbeats approaching, and not just any hoofbeats—the gait sounded like his own horse. But that couldn’t be right; Jaskier hadn’t been gone longer than a half hour.

Lambert had just mustered the will to prop himself up on his elbows and put on a confused scowl when Jaskier burst through the door, and then suddenly there was a bard kneeling in front of him. Musician’s hands touched his face, his neck, his shoulders, almost frantic as if Jaskier were afraid he might have disappeared.

“I’m so sorry, darling.”

“What the fuck are you doing back here?” Lambert said, flummoxed.

“Well, I’m an idiot so it took me a few minutes to figure out that this isn’t about a pair of boots.”

“I…” Lambert’s throat felt raw for no reason he could pinpoint. “Fuck, Jask, I’m not—”

“No, this is my fault,” Jaskier cut him off. “Of course you’re not in the mood to be judged by strangers, and I should’ve explained that that’s not what would happen.”

Lambert clenched his teeth. The words were trapped in his throat, anyway.

Jaskier took his silence as an opening to fill. “Lambert… my sister Kasia’s wife is a blacksmith. Father cut her off financially after the elopement, and there were a few years where I was effectively embezzling money from the family accounts to support them while Zu finished her journeymanship. Not to mention the funds I had to steal to pay for our other sister’s university fees, because ‘one poet is more than enough,’ or so Father insisted.” Jaskier chewed his lip. “All this is to say that usually, it’s the siblings Pankratz who are used to being judged when guests show up. We’re not exactly a traditional brood.”

Lambert replied with a noncommittal grunt that would’ve made Geralt proud. He was reluctant to let go of his assumption about how he’d be received, because it would be _so much worse_ to get rejected when his guard was down.

“Don’t mistake me, I am so proud of my sisters and the lives we’ve built. You know what they say: living well is the best revenge.” Jaskier perked up, as if at a delightful thought. “Ooo, we ought to put that on our heraldry. Father would roll in his grave.”

“You’re sure about this?” He hated the way his voice wavered a little. “You really want to bring a witcher home as your sub?”

“Well, since I’m a switch, no one will know your designation unless you choose to reveal it, but yes I’m very sure about the part where I get to show you off in all your glory.”

Lambert snorted derisively.

Jaskier cupped Lambert’s face in his hands. “I promise, it won’t take long for Kasia to see what I see.”

Caving to the intensity of his regard, Lambert nodded in acquiescence. It was hard to mean it, though, because he he had no fucking idea what it was Jaskier saw in him.

.o.O.o.

Jaskier took in Lambert’s tension, the flare of his nostrils, the way his hand tightened around his thigh like he wanted to move it lower and dig his fingers against the wound.

“Lambert, do you…” He wetted his lips uncertainly. “Do you need pain?”

That yellow gaze snapped up, eyes widening in shock. After a loaded silence, he finally said, “It’s not a sex thing.”

“I didn’t claim it had to be. You’re allowed to need things beyond sexual pleasure.”

“I don’t— It’s just—” Lambert looked around the room desperately, as if he were hoping to find his words misplaced on a side table. “Hard to focus, when I need to get it out.”

Jaskier nodded. This wasn’t the first time he’d observed Lambert hurting himself, or resisting the urge to hurt himself, and if the urge was left to boil over, he might very well do himself serious harm. “Very well. Go upstairs and wait for me.”

He hadn’t used any hint of Dom voice, but Lambert nonetheless moved with an automatic obedience that sent a pulse of possessiveness through Jaskier. The only thing that stopped him from chasing at Lambert’s heels was trepidation at the thought of how his _other_ houseguest would respond to this development.

Jaskier found Eskel puttering around the kitchen, putting away the cleaned plates and such from breakfast. “You gonna be okay with this?”

The witcher stilled, not quite looking at him. “How sure are you that it will help?” His voice was tight, his shoulders tighter. Eskel clearly did not like this idea, and was holding back a second round of _Punch the Bard_ only through sheer force of will.

“I’m very sure that ignoring the situation and telling him to just stop hurting himself is not a long-term solution.”

The best that Eskel could do was nod. Jaskier sighed, because _witchers_ , and accepted that this was the closest he’d come to getting an agreement out of Eskel. He left to follow Lambert up the stairs.

Jaskier pulled out the chair from the writing desk in Lambert’s borrowed bedroom, and gently maneuvered his witcher so Lambert was seated backwards in the chair, arms draped over the backrest. He stripped the shirt from Lambert and stole his belt as well, and while he expected Lambert to be vibrating with nerves, his touch seemed to be grounding the witcher.

Pressing a couple of crowns into Lambert’s palm, he said, “We can discuss safewords later, but for now, you say ‘stop’ or ‘ouch’ or drop those coins, and I will pause to do a check in. The only response I’ll ask you _not_ to make is please don’t turn and try to grab the belt—I don’t want to accidentally hurt your hands. Yes?”

Lambert swallowed visibly. “Okay. Yes.”

“Very good.” Jasker trailed his hand down Lambert’s bare spine, not able to resist touching all that bare, beautiful skin.

First, he stepped back and snapped the belt in the air like a whip, getting a feel for how it moved. This wasn’t his first time, but it had been a while, and unfamiliar equipment was less than ideal. Jaskier was not particularly concerned about hurting Lambert (physically, at least). If anything, he was worried he wouldn’t be able to hurt him _enough_ , given the resilience of witcher physiology and Lambert’s sky-high pain threshold.

So when he brought the belt down upon bare flesh and Lambert made a small, breathy sound, there was a certain satisfaction in that. Starting with hits that were lighter than he suspected was necessary, and Jaskier gradually worked his way up to full strength. He was careful to direct the motion more out than down, reducing the likelihood of friction burns from dragging the end after it struck. Lambert was breathing with the rhythm of the impacts now, his whole upper back reddening like a canvas under Jaskier’s paintbrush.

When Lambert’s head started to hang forward from his shoulders, Jaskier paused and stepped closer. He ran a hand gently over the witcher’s back, the skin hot to the touch. “Check-in time, darling. How are you?”

“Mm.” Lambert lifted his head a little. He sounded almost drunk. “Good.”

“More?”

“More.”

Jaskier had a feeling they were going to stop not when Lambert reached his threshold, but rather when Jaskier could no longer lift his right arm. It was fine. He’d learn how to flog with his left hand, too, for next time. He’d be damned if he wouldn’t be everything Lambert needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the sake of clarity, self-harm and masochism are not the same thing, and are motivated by very different emotional/neurochemical contexts. That said, I do think BDSM can be a healthy way to redirect or overwrite the instinct to self-harm.


	12. Chapter 12

It didn’t really seem fair that Jaskier’s right shoulder was aching like he’d spent the whole morning chopping firewood and Lambert—after a half hour of intense snuggling—came out of their session looking refreshed and leveled out with no hint of lingering soreness.

Jaskier and the witchers departed for the manor house significantly later than he’d intended but in much higher spirits. They would arrive close to the lunch hour, which was rather unkind to the poor kitchen staff who’d have to scramble to accommodate them with no advanced warning, but otherwise should be fine. But the manor was an hour’s ride away, and that time was enough for Lambert’s anxiety to refill like a once-emptied rainwater basin. Riding double with him atop Griffin, it was impossible not to notice the tension creeping back into his posture.

Jaskier was accustomed to _being_ the family embarrassment, and it felt surreal to know Lambert was worried about embarrassing him in front of his family. Of course, a fair amount of his youthful misbehavior was so deliberate it might as well have been scripted and staged—anything to take the heat off his younger sisters. Even now, Kasia was the responsible, reliable sibling, and Jaskier was the fun uncle who blew in like a storm most winters, staying for a week or two in between court performances and guest lectureships.

Jaskier tucked his chin atop Lambert’s shoulder. “I promise one of my kinfolk will do something weird or embarrassing before you even get a chance to. It will probably be me, if we’re being honest.”

Lambert snorted, but he seemed to at least _try_ to relax.

The long driveway up to the manor house was lined with cherry trees, and Jaskier stood up in the stirrups to pluck the fruit in little bunches of two from the branches. It must’ve been close to a decade since he last visited Lettenhove in the right season for ripe cherries, and he knew the fruit would taste like the summers of his childhood, but instead he reached around and popped one in Lambert’s mouth.

Lambert said nothing, just chewed the cherry and spat out the pit. Jaskier took the absence of a _fuck off_ as encouragement and offered another, and this time, the witcher very deliberately sucked on his fingers as Jaskier fed him. Warmth and satisfaction pooled in his gut—and okay, yes, there was some arousal mixed in there, too.

Riding Scorpion beside them, Eskel’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Keep it in your trousers, you two. We’re almost there.”

And indeed they were: a stablehand took the horses, and they climbed the steps of the Lettenhove manor. As one of the maids admitted them into the entry hall, Jaskier stuck close to Lambert’s side in nonverbal reassurance. It took only a minute for someone to fetch Kasia, who came striding in with a wide smile and a tight embrace for Jaskier.

“You darling reprobate, where have you _been?_ ” she greeted him, stepping back to look him over with an assessing eye.

“Oh, you know—music and wine… earn some coin, spend some coin… jump out of a bedroom window now and again…” Jaskier loved his sister dearly, but he wasn’t prepared to admit to how he’d had his heart broken and tried to drink himself to death.

He was still standing too close to Lambert, though; Kasia read her brother’s body language like a book, and before he could step in to clarify, she turned to Lambert and said, “You must be Geralt.”

Lambert raised an eyebrow. “Must I?”

Jaskier cleared his throat. “Actually, this is Lambert and Eskel of the Wolf School—Geralt won’t be in attendance this visit. Lambert, Eskel, may I present my sister, Katarzyna Pankratz, the unofficial Viscountess de Lettenhove.”

“Well it’s lovely to meet you both,” she said smoothly. “Please call me Kasia. And now I just need a quick sidebar with my brother, if you’ll excuse us for a moment.”

Her vise-like grip on his forearm brooked no argument as she dragged him across the entry hall to a private alcove. “Julek, please tell me you aren’t cheating on your witcher boyfriend with _another_ witcher, because there’s foolhardy and then there’s suicidal.”

Jaskier’s throat felt suddenly tight. “Geralt was never my boyfriend, and I’m not even travel-companion cheating on him, because we’re… not… friends anymore.”

Kasia sucked on her teeth. “Then are you sure it’s wise to be rebounding with a witcher? You were pining after Geralt for two decades, brother, and all of a sudden there’s a new one I’ve never heard of? Have you decided that _extremely dangerous_ is your type, or something?”

Jaskier felt his face heat with embarrassment. “Witchers are not indiscriminately violent. And also they have very acute senses and can probably hear everything we’re saying. Hi, Lambert,” he added without raising his voice at all.

“Hey, Buttercup,” Lambert called from across the entry hall, sounding extremely amused. Which was better than pissed off, Jaskier supposed.

Kasia paled. “Oh, dear.”

“But this is great, really, because I promised Lambert that we Pankratzes would _definitely_ embarrass ourselves before he could, so you’re playing right into my hands, dear sister.”

Kasia looked like she wanted the floor to swallow her, but she squared her shoulders and marched back out to where they’d left the witchers waiting. “I apologize for the rude welcome. My brother has a tendency to get himself into deeper trouble than he can reasonably navigate out of—”

“Hey!” Jaskier protested.

“—but that’s no call for me to go forgetting my manners. You must be hungry from the ride; please, we’d be delighted—”

Kasia was interrupted a second time by a delighted squeal, and Jaskier turned around just in time to receive an armful of his youngest sister.

“Essi?! What are you doing here?”

Essi pulled away from the hug and punched his arm. “I was worried about _you_ , you git. We were supposed to meet up at the summer festival in Ellander. Biggest bardic competition of the season, and the _famous Jaskier_ doesn’t show?”

He was about to respond, but then her gaze slid behind him and her eyes widened, and Jaskier thought to himself, _here we go again_.

“Sir Witcher!” Essi chirped, almost _bashfully_ , and it was such a shock that Jaskier briefly wondered if he shouldn’t check whether she was a doppler. Essi did not do bashful.

Equally odd was how Eskel looked between Jaskier and Essi with a hint of bewilderment before inclining his head in respectful acknowledgement. “Lady Daven.”

“What.” Jaskier blinked. The last thing he’d prepared for was his sister and Lambert’s brother recognizing each other.

“This is the witcher Lord Daven hired to take care of the werewolf that killed my husband,” Essi explained.

“Oh.” Guilt fountained up inside Jaskier at the reminder. Bad enough that he hadn’t been around to stop Father from marrying her off to Lord Daven’s second son…

“Oh stop that, it’s all in the past now,” Essi murmured with a gentle squeeze of his arm. Then her gaze floated back to Eskel. “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t given your name when last we spoke.”

Eskel looked like he might trip over his own tongue, so Jaskier pulled himself together. “Essi, this is Eskel and Lambert of the Wolf School. Boys, this is my youngest sister, Esther Pankratz, formerly Lady Daven, now known as the renowned troubadour, Essi Oczko.”

“A pleasure, good sirs,” said Essi.

From his apparent state of shock, Eskel recovered enough to kiss Essi’s hand. Lambert shot a _what the fuck_ sort of glance at Jaskier, to which he could only shrug helplessly. Kasia looked amused, and insisted they stay for lunch with the family.

.o.O.o.

Lambert knew fuck-all about kids. The last time he’d seriously interacted with children was when he was still a child himself. His training cohort—all two of them who survived the Trial of the Medallion—were the last witchers to graduate before the sacking of Kaer Morhen. He returned after four years on the path to find the keep had become a crypt, Vesemir rattling around the empty halls with seventy stinking corpses for company. Every last trainee was slaughtered and the mutagen formulas were lost, and that was the end of children at Kaer Morhen.

So when three kids were herded into the dining room by a governess, Lambert kind of wanted to flee. Instead, he watched Jaskier crouch down and address the youngest.

“Hi Alicja,” he said brightly. “Do you remember your uncle Julek?”

The little girl eyed the bard dubiously, but decided to let go of the governess’s hand in favor of getting a tentative hug from Jaskier.

The other two were boys, older but still shy of puberty, who received much less cautious hugs from Jaskier and then were introduced as Mati and Janek. Both of them wanted to shake hands with Lambert and Eskel—either the boys didn’t know what a witcher looked like, or they hadn’t been raised on the same _behave or the witchers will snatch you_ tripe that most children seemed to be exposed to.

When the governess rounded them up to get them in their seats at the dining table, Jaskier turned to Kasia and lowered his voice. “She doesn’t know who I am.”

Kasia smiled sympathetically. “It’s been a year and half, Julek.”

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, in that way that Lambert was starting to recognize as pain. “I should be here more.”

“You should have a seat and stop self-flagellating. You have your own life to live, that’s nothing to feel guilty over.”

Lambert tried not to feel like a coward for claiming a chair beside Jaskier; he didn’t _need_ the security of having his dom within arm’s reach. He just. Well. It was nice, was all.

When Kasia’s wife entered, she was immediately identifiable from the thick leather overalls and the forge smell clinging to her. Compared to Kasia—who shared Jaskier’s tall, willowy build and chestnut hair—the blacksmith was shorter, stockier, and dirty blonde.

Kasia looked up with a smile that showed naked affection. “Daria’s not with you?”

“Haven’t seen her in an hour or two.” The blacksmith bent down to peck a kiss on Kasia’s mouth.

“Ominous,” Kasia commented before handling the introductions. Her wife Zuzanna, or _Zu_ as she apparently preferred to be called, seemed completely unphased at Jaskier’s unexpected arrival or at the unusual guests he’d shown up with. Lambert felt as if there was something oddly anticlimactic about the ease of their reception.

He expected a viscountess’s children to be proper little lordlings and ladies, perhaps in need of a reminder about which fork to use, but no greater disciplining than that. (Lambert himself had already considered how he would need to surreptitiously watch Jaskier to figure out the table manners.) He was _not_ expecting Daria, the eldest girl on the cusp of womanhood, to arrive late with a fist full of live earthworms, which she ruthlessly stuffed down the collar of Janek’s shirt.

Janek launched out of his dining chair, screeching and raining worms, while Mati and Alicja giggled and Daria looked grimly pleased with herself.

Kasia let out a put-upon sigh. “At the dining table—really? Aren’t we getting a bit old for that manner of retribution, Daria?”

Jaskier said, “Come now, there’s no age limit on the time-honored joy of sticking worms in people’s clothes.”

Lambert didn’t like the manic gleam in Jaskier’s eye. “Don’t you dare.”

“Well I wouldn’t do it _now_ , obviously. It ruins the surprise if you’re expecting it.”

“Ugh, I hate you!” Janek fumed, and then appealed to a higher authority, “ _Mama_ …”

Kasia raised an eyebrow. “What do you have to say for yourself, Daria?”

Daria dead-eyed her mothers. “He knows what he did.”

Soon enough, everyone was resettled at the table and the food was served. Lambert mostly thought the worm incident made an excellent distraction from the extreme awkwardness that was Essi and Eskel, alternating between ignoring each other and trying to steal glances when the other wasn’t looking. He could practically hear his brother thinking, _just act normal, just act normal_. Lambert couldn’t believe he’d ever taken romantic advice from this idiot. Talk about blind leading the blind.

An even better distraction, though, was the discovery that Zu was not just any blacksmith but specifically a _bladesmith_. Lambert soon found himself deeply embroiled in a debate about silver alloys that made the lunch hour fly by.

.o.O.o.

As they collected the horses from the stablehand later that afternoon, Jaskier decided the visit had been quite a success. His family had proven weird enough that Lambert had relaxed and actually seemed to enjoy the social call. After lunch, Zu had stolen the two witchers to show off her custom forge built out behind the main house and talk about whatever it was weapons nerds talked about with each other.

Jaskier himself had weathered only a little bit of good-natured ribbing from his sisters with regard to his current choice of bed partner. Anyway, with the way Essi made eyes at Eskel from across the table, it wasn’t like she had a leg to stand on. And it was always a joy to see his nieces and nephews—he liked making people happy, and children were easy that way.

As they rode out, Eskel said, “Why is Kasia only the _un_ official viscountess, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Jaskier sighed. “According to Redanian law, switches and neutrals can inherit, but submissives cannot. If I renounce the title now, it goes to one of my obnoxious cousins, and my sister and her family are out on their arses with nothing. So we’re waiting until the children are old enough to present, at which point we can put one of them on the books as the official Pankratz heir. _Then_ I can go ahead and perish in a tragic act of heroism without rendering my closest relatives destitute.”

Lambert growled at that, and Jaskier ran a soothing hand along his flank.

“Just being dramatic, darling. I have no intention of perishing.”

Because his darling witcher really could be a little shit sometimes, Lambert said, “Yeah? So what about Essi—what’s her deal?”

Eskel managed to feign indifference surprisingly well, but they all knew Lambert was only asking to tease him. Jaskier decided to indulge the question anyway.

“Our father was… a difficult man. He had political ambitions and found it deeply frustrating that none of his children wanted to waste their own lives propping up his ego. I was supposed to leave Oxenfurt having had my fill of the liberal arts, put my lute away for good, and dedicate myself to the art of social climbing. Instead I ran off and met a witcher. Kasia fell in love and eloped with a _tradeswoman_ ,” he inflected the word with faux shock and clutched at his imaginary pearls, “and then there was one: Essi. I didn’t even hear about the arrangement until after she’d already been married off. She was only fifteen—”

Eskel audibly growled, but Jaskier did him the courtesy of pretending not to hear it.

“—but Lord Daven was the chief military advisor to King Vizimir, and happened to have too many sons. The eldest was of course in line to inherit the Dukedom of Drakenborg, but if his second son could be set up as the future Viscount of Lettenhove, that would certainly buy Father some favor in court. Of course _then_ the idiot went off to heroically rid the countryside of a werewolf and ended up getting himself killed.” Jaskier paused, then added in a perfect deadpan, “And I suppose Eskel knows the rest of that chapter better than I.”

Eskel made a sort of choking noise.

“Anyway, the Davens didn’t have much use for a childless widow, so Essi was freed from her obligations. I pulled some strings at Oxenfurt, and the ungrateful little urchin repaid me by becoming the competition. Rude,” he concluded with a grin. In truth, he loved that Essi shared his passion for music and poetry—even if she did occasionally walk away from a festival with a purse that would’ve been his.

When they arrived back at the beach house, Jaskier abandoned both horses to Eskel’s care and hurried Lambert up the stairs, making excuses about desperately wanting a bath after the ride. In the bath room, Jaskier began cranking the water pump up and down, hoping the splash of the tub being filled—combined with the distance and the walls—would mask their voices.

“Is it me, or do our siblings have the hots for each other?” Jaskier murmured under his breath.

“Hate to burst your bubble Buttercup,” Lambert said, “but I think Eskel already tapped that.”

“ _What_ ,” he hissed.

“Yup, pretty sure that particular awkward silence was Eskel’s _I got my dick wet once and she blew my mind and now I don’t know how to act_ response.”

“But— I mean— she didn’t know his _name_ ,” Jaskier sputtered, fully aware of the hypocrisy of his protest. He was the last person on the Continent who had a right to be shocked at other people’s casual encounters. But it was different for women. Wasn’t it? Jaskier sat back on his heels with a huff. “I can’t believe my sister banged a witcher before me, and then never told me about it. Betrayal! Knife in the back, I tell you.”

Lambert eyed him speculatively. “Did you actually want a bath, or just wanted to gossip like a court lady?”

“Mostly the second thing, if I’m honest.”

The witcher’s lips parted in a feral grin. “Excellent. Cuz you know what makes for good revenge?”

Jaskier swallowed, his throat gone dry. “Uh… living well?”

“Got it in one.”

.o.O.o.

They _may_ have left an inconsiderate trail of shed clothes leading up the stairs and into Lambert’s borrowed bedroom. He almost felt bad about it, except… _nah_. There was this beautiful blue-eyed bard who—despite technically being a nobleman—seemed bounded and determined to slum it in Lambert’s bed, and now that his leg wound was no longer literally killing him, Lambert was damn sure gonna take advantage of that. Yes, admittedly, it was only two days ago that he’d sworn off thinking with his dick… but to be frank, sometimes his dick had really _excellent_ ideas.

“Mm, gonna ride you like a pony,” Lambert growled, enjoying the way the heady scent of Jaskier’s lust spiked in response to his threat. How did a prickly dumbass like him get so fuckin’ lucky?

Jaskier moaned against Lambert’s lips. “Oh yes please.”

Lambert pulled away from the hot crash of their mouths, because some part of his rational brain was still working. “Shit, we need—”

“…Oil?” Jaskier finished for him with a cheeky grin, opening his closed fist to reveal the small vial he held.

He laughed. “Where the fuck did you get that?”

“I like to be prepared.”

The bard must have had it tucked away in one of his pockets all day, so he’d be ready to fuck Lambert wherever, whenever… and _fuck_ , why was that idea so hot? He took Jaskier’s hard cock in hand, squeezing like a promise of what was to come. “You like being ready for me?” he teased.

Jaskier whimpered, bucking into his grip. “Do you want me to lie and say I _don’t_ think about having sex with you all the time?”

Lambert couldn’t help it; his grin turned absolutely feral and he tossed the bard backward onto the bed. Gods, he was an addict for those little yelps of surprise whenever Jaskier was caught off-guard by witcher strength. He leapt onto the bed after him, straddling Jaskier and claiming another hot kiss, all tongues and teeth.

Jaskier scrambled with the cork stopper and spilled a little oil on the linens in his haste. But then there were slicked fingers teasing at Lambert’s entrance. “Are you sure, darling?”

He was already quivering with need, and Jaskier hadn’t even breached him yet. “Shut up and fuck me already,” he groaned.

The fingers dipped inside his desperate hole, sending sparks of arousal up his spine. Lambert’s cock leaked a smear of precome onto the flat plane of Jaskier’s stomach. He needed more, this waiting was _bullshit_. He grabbed the oil and slicked Jaskier’s flagpole of an erection, then pushed away his hand and sank down, sheathing Jaskier inside him to the hilt in one smooth motion.

Jaskier let out a shocked laugh. “Slowly! Don’t hurt yourself.”

“Don’t want slow,” Lambert grumbled. It ached and burned a little, but he was so full he could practically feel Jaskier in the back of his throat. “Oh… fffn—”

Jaskier smoothed his hands up and down Lambert’s thighs. “Anything you want, darling.”

Lambert rolled his hips, marveling at the sensation of _completion_ , like he wasn’t really a whole person before getting stuffed with Jaskier’s cock. It had been so long— _years_ —and he’d thought he would never have this again after Aiden was killed. He felt like there was something old and tight unspooling in his chest, and the relief almost made him want to sob.

Instead, he started fucking himself in earnest, bouncing on Jaskier’s rock-hard prick. The bard met him halfway with perfectly synchronized thrusts, a near-constant stream of dirty praise falling from his lips. _So good, gorgeous, feel so tight around me—hhhff—don’t close your eyes, look at me I want to see you._

Jaskier’s voice was having a hypnotic effect on him. His Dom was pleased with him, and he felt so warm and safe and floaty. The strength melted out of his limbs as he drifted into subspace, and his rhythm faltered. Lambert whined in his throat, frustrated with his own weakness.

“Shh, let me take care of you, my love.”

The world flipped around him, and Lambert gazed half-lidded up at Jaskier. The bard had him on his back now, knees hooked over Jaskier’s elbows, and the first smooth thrust made Lambert see stars as Jaskier’s cock massaged that special spot inside him. Jaskier fucked into him with slow, sweet, _thorough_ thrusts, like Lambert’s body was something precious to be savored, every single drop of possible pleasure wrung out of him.

“Look at you, so gorgeous and wrecked on my cock.” Jaskier took Lambert in hand, stroking expertly. “Are you going to be a good boy and come for me, Lambert?”

Distantly, Lambert was aware that he _should_ want to stab anyone who spoke to him that way. But mostly what he wanted was to be a good boy for Jaskier. The pressure was building low in his abdomen, and his heart hammered in his chest almost human-fast. Jaskier’s callous-tipped thumb rubbed over his slit, and then Lambert was coming, and coming, and _coming_ —suspended in a moment of intense pleasure that seemed to last for days instead of seconds.

Only much later, when he rose groggy and contented from subspace, did he remember: Jaskier had called him _my love_.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy y’all, sorry for the delay! Things have been crazy since the semester started.
> 
> Looking ahead, this fic is probably going to be another ~2-3 chapters, and then there will be a sequel set a few months later at Kaer Morhen wherein we finally get the return of Geralt. You can look forward to everyone being irrationally jealous of everyone, and Ciri holding the only brain cell! I’ll probably end up also adding some Essi/Eskel backstory smut to this series, because I am weak.

Only half awake, Jaskier yawned and rolled over, reaching to cling onto the warm body that should be beside him, but his arm landed on empty linens. His eyes snapped open, heart hammering in his throat, suddenly _very_ awake from the kick of panicked adrenaline. Cool dawn light filtered in the window, revealing the complete absence of a witcher from the bedroom.

Jaskier scrambled out of bed, unsteady on his feet from the rude wake-up call of his own dread. Someone (Eskel) had left his clothes folded in a neat pile outside the bedroom door, which was truly excellent, because Jaskier was not above running out of the house naked if finding his trousers proved too difficult.

Lambert was gone; he’d fucked up and driven Lambert away _again_. How could he be so careless? He knew better—he _knew better_ than to deploy his feelings on an unsuspecting witcher. Of course Lambert wasn’t prepared to handle the intensity of Jaskier’s emotions.

There was no one on the main floor of the beach house. Jaskier quickly checked the kitchen and the bath, wondering if Eskel had run off in pursuit of his fleeing brother. He fumbled open the outside door, and as he practically threw himself down the exterior stairs, he could overhear voices below.

Lambert was saying, “I swear to the gods, Eskel—I’m going to _eat_ that little bleater if you don’t make it shut up.”

Relief washed through Jaskier—Lambert hadn’t run, or at least if he’d started to, he hadn’t gotten very far yet. Below the beach house, there appeared to be two witchers, two horses, and a goat. Jaskier knuckled his eyes and checked again, but the tally didn’t change. The adrenaline rush subsided, leaving his head feeling foggy and disjointed.

“There’s a goat,” Jaskier observed groggily. “Why is there a goat?”

“I don’t know, she must have followed us,” Eskel offered.

Lambert folded his arms. “I don’t like it. Their eyes are creepy.”

Eskel snorted. “You’re one to talk.”

The goat gazed up at Eskel with naked adoration and bleated for attention. Eskel sighed and scritched behind one floppy ear.

“Am I still asleep, and this is a weird dream where the goat is supposed to symbolize something?”

Lambert snorted. “Well my brother has always been a sucker for a woman with horns.”

Eskel pulled a face of disgust and then said to the goat, “Don’t listen to Lambert’s crass sense of humor.”

The goat brayed again, almost conversationally, and now it was Lambert’s turn to pull a face. “I’m not kidding. If we get another dawn wake-up, it’s goat stew time for that little bleater.”

Jaskier edged closer, easing hesitantly into Lambert’s personal space. “So… you got out of bed because the goat was too loud.”

“Yes! Maybe you can sleep through a bomb going off, but some of us—why are you laughing?”

Jaskier’s laughter was full of relief bordering on hysteria, and he turned in to muffle it against Lambert’s shoulder, bringing his arms up to cling about the witcher’s waist.

Softer, guiltily, Lambert said, “You thought I ran again.”

Jaskier pulled himself together and back away far enough to cup Lambert’s face in his hands. “I’m just very relieved to discover that an errant goat is the worst of our problems this morning.”

Lambert scowled, and Jaskier couldn’t tell if he was upset with himself or still mad about the goat or what. All he said was, “Fuck.”

“I jumped to conclusions, that’s all,” Jaskier said, trying to reassure. “We’re fine, aren’t we?”

“ _No_ ,” Lambert snapped. “You smell nervous. You said— and then I—”

Jaskier really wished he was a mind reader, because right now he wasn’t even sure _Lambert_ understood how he was feeling, and Jaskier definitely couldn’t sort it out from those aborted half sentences.

“Why don’t we go sit and talk,” Jaskier proposed, trying to clamp down on the nerves he apparently smelled of. There was a broad, flat-topped rock sticking out of the sand down close to the high-tide mark, a nice spot for restful contemplation. Lambert followed and perched beside him on the rock when he sat.

Silence stretched between them, weighted with their respective fears. Lambert glowered at the ocean like he blamed it for his inability to dredge up the words.

Jaskier fidgeted, unable to stay quiet for long. “I didn’t mean to say that yet. I know it’s much too soon to say such things.”

“But you meant it.”

“Well, yes, obviously.”

The witcher side-eyed him, almost suspiciously.

“I don’t expect you to reciprocate, I know it’s a lot. I know _I_ can be a lot, I’ve always leant toward overdramatic, if we’re being honest…”

He trailed off, distracted as Lambert dropped to his knees in the sand. The witcher wedged himself between Jaskier’s legs, fingers working deftly through his trouser laces.

“Darling, what are you— _oh fuck._ ” Jaskier wasn’t hard, but he would get there _real quick_ with Lambert’s hands pulling out his cock and his head ducking down to add lips and tongue.

Well. A blow job wasn’t exactly an _I love you too_ , but this was Lambert, and for all his relative verboseness—compared to other witchers who shall not be named—expressing emotions other than anger wasn’t one of Lambert’s best skills. It was enough, that Lambert’s response was to want to be closer instead of running away.

And thank the gods that Jaskier’s higher brain functions had arrived at such a conclusion, because Lambert was sucking on his head and flicking his tongue in a way that made him gasp. His rapidly hardening erection vanished into the wet warmth of his sub’s mouth, and suddenly there was no more room for higher thought, just the incredible feeling of lips wrapped tight around him. Lambert bobbed his head with dedicated focus, as if determined to suck Jaskier’s soul out through his cock, and it really didn’t take very long at all until the witcher was swallowing his come like it was a reward for a job well done.

Jaskier gasped for breath in the wake of his orgasm and ran his hand through Lambert’s hair, the contact soothing for them both. Lambert rested against Jaskier’s leg, head leaning on his thigh, arm wrapped around his calf. There was a very obvious erection trapped in Lambert’s trousers, but he was apparently too blissed out to deal with it.

“Darling, do you want to come?”

Lambert nodded loosely without lifting his head from Jaskier’s thigh, but his eyes opened, gazing up at Jaskier with blown pupils. After a moment, he seemed to realize the impediment his clothes presented, and his fingers fumbled with his trouser laces to free himself.

Jaskier bit his lower lip; it was quite a sight, Lambert on his knees with his cock flushed and hard in hand, aroused and drifting and looking up at him with so much trust. “Are you ready? Do you want me to command it?”

Lambert nodded again, one hand stroking himself in a rather uncoordinated fashion.

Gently, Jaskier insisted, “I’m afraid that’s insufficient. I need verbal confirmation that you want me to use my Dom voice on you.”

Lambert’s jaw worked, as if trying to recall what it felt like to shape words, but after a moment he managed to say, “Yes please.”

“That was very good communication, thank you,” Jaskier praised. “Now— **Lambert, come for me.** ”

His mouth dropped open and his hips stuttered, and he spurted on the sand between Jaskier’s feet. Afterward, he went right back to clinging blissfully to Jaskier’s leg, a dopey smile pulling at his mouth.

Jaskier thought his heart might burst. Gods, how could anyone ever dream of hurting this sweet, perfect man?

.o.O.o.

Lambert and Jaskier borrowed both horses for the afternoon. On the ride, Jaskier made Lambert talk about what specific uses of his Dom voice were and weren’t desirable—a conversation that was completely mortifying to be having when he was sober and awake instead halfway to subspace. Lambert could, _very grudgingly_ , admit the necessity of having such a discussion, but that didn’t make him any less grumbly and snappish about it.

Lambert wasn’t quite ready to admit how much he enjoyed Jaskier controlling his orgasms. How he wanted Jaskier to make him wait, make him desperate, make him _beg for it_ before letting him come. Or perhaps pull him into an alley behind a tavern and make him come with no warning, practically in public.

In any case, it wasn’t a subject he’d find the courage to broach while riding through the fuckin’ countryside on Eskel’s horse.

They rode into the town of Lettenhove, half a mile south of the manor, where everyone seemed to know Jaskier and only a few people looked askance at Lambert. Jaskier bought him clothes and boots, new saddlebags and camping gear, soaps and barber’s scissors for trimming his beard and linen bandages to start a new medical kit.

Lambert grew quiet, uncomfortable with the breadth of this generosity. “It’s too much.”

“Nonsense,” Jaskier replied, picking out cordials and spirits and other White Gull ingredients with frightening accuracy. “What is the point in being filthy rich if I can’t provide you with what you’ll need to be comfortable on the Path?”

Lambert harrumphed. “Not your job to provide me anything.”

Jaskier just grinned at him. “Maybe if you’re a very good boy I’ll let you pay us back by killing some drowners or something.”

“Fuck off, bard,” he grumbled.

But the thought of paying Jaskier back in trade stuck like a barb and wouldn’t leave him alone. He’d have to kill something really impressive to even make a dent in his debt, but he could do that. Get his hands on some saltpeter and restock his bomb collection. Wouldn’t even need to be fighting fit if he had the right bombs.

That evening, Lambert and Jaskier curled up on the chaise again, looking out the wide windows over the moonlight-capped sea. Jaskier was running his fingers through the short hairs at the nape of his neck, and the touch made Lambert want to purr, but he was too preoccupied to sink into subspace.

Trying to keep his tone casual, Lambert asked, “You get nixas on this stretch of coastline? Lots of rocks—probably got some caves they’d like to nest in.”

Jaskier’s hand stilled, and he leaned closer to peck a kiss to Lambert’s temple before answering. “First off, you absolutely are not allowed to go wandering off on a hunt until Eskel clears you for combat. And no, we don’t generally get nixas. These waters are mer territory, and they have little patience for them.”

Lambert’s eyebrows rose. “Merfolk? You’re kidding. This far north? I’ve only run into them around Skellige.”

“Mhmm. And not just rumors. I’ve met them, actually,” Jaskier said, in that tone he used when he was warming up to tell a story. “When I was… oh, I must have been six or seven, I suppose—anyway, when I was little, I went in the water in the wrong place and got pulled out to sea on a riptide. I very nearly drowned, but a pair of merfolk nabbed me and swam me back to shore. They sang to keep me calm; I didn’t know the words in their language, but they had the most lovely voices, and they turned this horrible frightening experience into something beautiful, as if their song was its own kind of magic. I wanted to learn how to do that.”

“Wait, so you became a bard because some monsters used their Song on you when you were a kid?”

Softly, sadly, Jaskier said, “Not everything inhuman is a monster, Lambert. Surely you know that.”

Lambert snorted. This sounded like one of Eskel’s bleeding-heart lectures about making sure the creatures actually deserved to die before taking a contract. Lambert, on the other hand, had found that _stab first, ask questions later_ was the best policy for keeping himself alive.

“Look at me, darling.” Jaskier tilted his head with a gentle but firm hand tucked under his chin. “Promise you will try to relax and recuperate. That’s what we all came here for. This is a safe place, you don't have to be a witcher in my home.”

“Right, yeah,” he agreed, just to make Jaskier happy. But in the privacy of his own mind, Lambert promised himself he would prove he was useful.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [and they never want it again](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28766934) by [remindmeofthe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/remindmeofthe/pseuds/remindmeofthe)




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